“And old Levi Armstrong, too,” said another settler, who, standing near, had caught the brief conversation.
“Yes, there is Levi; I had overlooked him,” the youth remarked quickly.
“He and the Logans do not rightly belong here,” said Strong. “Levi lent Throop a hand at his fort down on Massanga creek, and there he belongs. He will take the Logans with him.”
“But should he ask admittance here, you will not refuse, captain?”
“Our quota of families is full now. We can’t accommodate another,” answered Strong, with the air of a man elevated by a small command. “And, besides, I am confident that we are surrounded now. The girls maintain that they caught a glimpse of Indians at the river, and I, myself, have seen feathers on the top of the hill. They wait for the opening of the gates; but nothing under heaven can induce me to please them in that particular. We’ve a good supply of water, and I tell you, sir, that the gates don’t open again until the danger is passed.”
The foregoing conversation occurred on the night of Levi Armstrong’s abandonment of his cabin, and Zebulon Strong’s mien told that he was determined to adhere to his determination at all hazards.
Johnny Appleseed had performed a noble duty. Those whom he had warned allowed no grass to grow under their feet. While he yet lingered in sight of the uncouth cabin, it was deserted, and its inmates were flying toward Strong’s fort. All those who claimed shelter beneath its roof had caused their names to be registered in the commandant’s book, so, when the last registered family had passed the palisades, the gates were closed and barred.
The appearance of the Indians quickly followed the strange man’s warning. They had executed forced marches from Detroit, hoping to reach the “fire-lands” in advance of tidings of the surrender; but found themselves outwitted. This disappointment only strengthened their desire for blood, and on the evening that followed the gathering at the fort, they made their presence known.
After declaring that the gates should open no more until the danger had passed, Captain Zebulon Strong left the two men, the younger of whom turned to the loop-hole looking upon the level plain, that stretched from the block-house to the river. The moon was shining brightly, and from his elevated position he caught the shimmer of the Huron’s waves.
“I have seen no Indian feathers,” he murmured, sweeping the bank with his eye. “The captain is getting too arbitrary of late. It’s all well enough to be cautious; but this thing of barring the gates against our fellow-men won’t do.”