“Come on, then!” Joe cried recklessly. “It don’t make no differ’nce who says we can’t go—Gener’l Harrison ’r anybody else—we’ll go any——”
He ended abruptly and fixed his gaze upon the opposite shore. The Wyandot followed his example. A body of men had emerged from the woods, and were running toward the boats on the shore. Others quickly followed them—and still others. From the fort, it could be seen that many of them were without hats or guns. Pell-mell they rushed to the boats, and hastily pushed off.
“A rout and a slaughter!” General Harrison moaned as he entered his tent.
“Here comes a part of ’em, anyhow,” Farley muttered grimly; “but it ’pears to be a mighty small part of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I only hope Douglas is amongst ’em. If he ain’t, he’s knocked under fer sure this time. Well, it seems ther’ ain’t nothin’ to do but wait, an’ watch, an’ pray—it does, by ginger!”
And, folding his arms, the lank and sorrowful-looking woodman sullenly watched the fugitives frantically poling their craft across the river.
Now all was bustle and confusion within the garrison. One of the gates was thrown open; and soldiers hurried down to the shore, to receive and protect the terrorized fugitives. Soon all were safe within the walls; but still the hubbub continued. Hundreds crowded around the survivors, to hear the story of their dreadful experience. General Harrison called one of the surviving officers into his tent, and there learned the particulars of the ambuscade and awful slaughter.
Colonel Dudley had been tomahawked; many of the officers were dead. And of the gallant eight hundred less than one-fourth had escaped. It was not war; it was butchery—annihilation!
Joe Farley and Bright Wing moved among the survivors, and eagerly scanned each face. But the man they sought was not there. Suddenly the Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise and exclaimed:
“Dog Duke!”