Within the fort, all gazed with sorrow at the wounded pioneer, who, although in range of the Indian rifles, was so protected that the balls could not quite reach him. Those in the fort kept up a fusillade in the direction of the red men, making them get below cover, and thus the battle continued; the leaden balls zipping and whizzing across the place, where Harrison lay partially concealed. The man’s family, in the fort, seemed to be in an agony of distress at his terrible condition. To save him would require great nerve and heroism. There were but fifteen men in the stockade; two were badly wounded. Should they sacrifice any of this small number in the endeavor to rescue a man, who, even should he be retaken, would be unable to fight in defense of the fortification? This question confronted the beleaguered pioneers, and it was a serious one.
At this moment young Logan stepped forward and said:
“Who will go with me to the rescue of this poor fellow?”
It was strange to see the effect of these words upon the besieged frontiersmen. At first every one refused.
“I’m not a fast runner,” said one, “and know that they will easily catch me on the return trip, even if I am not shot before I reach the wounded man.”
A second—a fellow of giant build—quavered: “I am a weakly chap. I never was no good, nohow, on liftin’. Perhaps you’d better git ernother stouter feller than I be.”
Still a third remarked that, “he wuz plum onlucky with Injin bullets, an’ never wuz known tew git amongst ’em in the open without havin’ one uv ’em nick him.”
Ben Logan could not help smiling at this.
“What, are you all afraid to follow me?” said he.
At this, a trapper called John Martin stepped towards him, and said: