The fire-bug managed to crawl away, but he left his torch and the kitchen too.
Morning dawned. The Indians seemed busy at something. They had ransacked the dug-out and were carrying the cannon-balls in shore, to the hill slope before the fort. Had their cannon come? Yes! No! But look! There it was—they were propping it up, to load it and aim it. A long, dangerous piece, too.
What did it have around it? Chains, by thunder! And hoop-iron! A log, split and hollowed out, and bound together with stuff from Reichart's blacksmith shop! Haw-haw!
Watch, everybody! Could the blamed thing possibly stand fire? Hope not. They were ramming into it powder by the horn full. A ball from their pile followed. They rammed that also, and wadded it. One of them hastened with a smoking stick. They pretended to take good aim. They yelled and shook their guns and hatchets, as they stood aside to make way for the ball from the muzzle.
Now!
"Flash-whang!"
A great cloud of smoke veiled the spot. No ball issued; only shrieks and shouts, and from the edges figures dived into the open and thence into the brush. The smoke cleared. The wooden cannon had disappeared, but the spot was covered with dead and wounded Indians.
"Help yourselves to more cannon-balls," jeered Captain Sullivan. "We wish you a dozen such guns."
Reinforcements had set out from Shepherd's Fort, six miles distant. When they drew near, they saw that they had no hope of entering the fort, so thick and angry were the attackers. They voted to return and get recruits; then try again. But that was not to the mind of the lad Francis Duke—Colonel Shepherd's son-in-law, aged not much over twenty, and rashly brave.
"I've come too far to turn my back on a place that needs help as badly as this does. I'm going in, or die for it."