Her breath came quickly, her heart rose in her throat and seemed to choke her, mists swam before her eyes as she ran up the hill. Blindly she struggled on. She swayed to and fro over the rough ploughed ground, and the watchers thought she would have fallen or dropped her burden, but something superhuman in her enabled her to hold tight and press on.
She could not tell whether she ran rapidly or not; but her progress seemed slow, fearfully slow. Presently the firing stopped. Three of the Indians, tomahawk in hand, broke from the trees and recklessly started up the hill after her. They would try to capture her. Heedless of a possible rifle fire from the fort as they came within range, they leaped on her trail.
That was McCullough's opportunity. With a prayer in his heart that God might speed the bullet, he took careful aim. The first half-naked painted demon was nearing the girl with every bound. Two more steps and she would be in his grasp. She heard his feet on the ground; his yell rang in her ear. In spite of herself she started aside and looked around.
McCullough had his opening at last. A rifle shot rang out. She heard the scream of the bullet past her head. The savage threw up his hands, groaned horribly, and pitched forward with a bullet in his breast. Encouraged, she ran a few steps farther. Her foot caught in a forked piece of timber. The other pursuing Indians were near her now. The wood was filled with the enemy holding their fire and watching the mad chase.
"Let no one else fire," called McCullough. "You might hit her. Leave them to me."
These two savages, warned by the fate of the first, were wise enough to keep directly behind the fleeing girl. But, as her foot caught, she plunged sideways to extricate herself, leaving the shoe with its glittering silver buckle in the obstruction. That one second was enough for McCullough again. Once more the unerring rifle cracked and the second Indian fell.
Elizabeth, recovering her wits, ran sideways now. The third Indian, attracted by the shining buckle, stooped for a moment to pick it up. McCullough fired a third rifle, which some one put into his hand. The bullet shattered the Indian's arm. With a cry of pain and rage, his other hand dropped down toward the lost slipper, and this time a bullet from a fourth rifle found his heart.
The woods were ringed with fire now, but the girl was saved. When he saw that she had arrived at the fort gate, McCullough ran from the block-house and reached the entrance in time to catch her in his arms. Her poor little Philadelphia finery was red with blood from the wound in her neck, and her sweet young face was covered with the same gory embroidery.
She dropped the powder at the feet of the colonel and fainted in McCullough's arms, his own face scarcely less white than hers. One agonizing glance he gave to assure himself that her wounds were but slight ones, and he had to leave her to the women, for he was called to the walls.
While some of the women revived the girl, others, by Colonel Sheppard's directions, broke open the precious keg of powder and served it to the men. Those who could do so, took their places, rifle in hand, on the stockade; for the Indians and rangers now came out into the open. Carrying a great log, the Indians dashed recklessly at the fort, endeavoring to batter in the gate, while they kept down the fire of the defenders by the rapidity of their own discharge. They reached the gate and hammered on it with their ram; but the gallant little band within the walls, with their women helpers behind them, poured such a fire upon them that after heavy loss they retreated out of range, disheartened by their failure.