“What is the matter?” laughed Charles, laying down the well-known volume which had been engrossing his attention. “One would think you expected an attack from Indians. But, I may as well join the circle.”
Reaching for his own rifle, the young man set about the task. With rifle-cleaning, bullet-molding, and conversation, the evening passed quickly away. Then arms and ammunition all in order—though little dreaming of the fearful use for which it would be required—the family at length retired.
Profound slumber was upon the inmates of the cabin, and their pleasant breathing fell in regular cadence upon the still night air. No thought of danger was there to disturb the quiet serenity. Midnight was at hand—all was hushed.
Suddenly there sounded without a springing footstep, and a heavy blow upon the door, repeated, as if given by the stock of a rifle. The four sleepers heard the noise, but could not readily determine from whence it sprung. Again came the summons, and, as the sound died away, a strong voice called aloud for the sleepers to awake. In a moment the four persons were astir, and hastily preparing themselves for any emergency. Again the same summons, calling upon them to hasten, as they valued life.
“Coming—wait a moment,” exclaimed the father, half impatiently, half wonderingly.
“Hurry—hurry! minutes are years, now,” responded the voice. “If ye care for yer scalps, be speedy.”
Philip Markley had produced a light by this time, and, satisfying himself that but one person was at the door, hastily unbarred it. Surely he knew that tall form, with that jet hair and sparkling eyes. Four years had passed since they met, yet the recognition was instantaneous.
“David Barring!—Scouting Davy!” were the exclamations which greeted the new-comer, as he crossed the threshold.
“Stop!” he exclaimed, authoritatively; “it’s me, an’ I’m all right yet; but ye must hurry if ye want to save yer hair. The Injins are upon us!”
“Indians!”