The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While, across the eddying river,
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring,
The bloodhounds darken land and water,
They come—like buffaloes for slaughter.—G. P. Morris.
At that point from which the Huron had advanced to the fort, the Shawnees and Miamis had now collected, preparatory to their final attack upon it. The wood being thick at this spot, they had little difficulty in keeping their bodies out of sight, the besieged being enabled to judge of their position by the points of their rifles and portions of their dress, which they took no pains to conceal.
"That means business," said Dernor, loosening his knife, and examining the priming of his rifle. "What's their idea, Oonamoo?"
"Run all togedder—make big rush—all come from one side."
Being satisfied of this, the Huron crossed over to the side of the hunter, so as to be ready for the assault. He was as cool as if sitting in his own wigwam, although none was more aware than himself of the peril that hung over his head. Could the Shawnees or Miamis once obtain his person, no species of torment that their fiendish minds could invent would be left untried upon him. But he had played hide-and-seek too long with death, to be disconcerted in a moment like this.
"What are they waiting for?" asked Dernor, who began to grow impatient at the delay.