The last word was spoken in an underbreath, for the crack of rifles smote his ears, and instantly the block-house was a scene of confusion.
The reports sounded terribly distinct on the night air, and seemed to emanate from a spot about three hundred yards down the river.
“Keep your senses, women!” was heard the stern, hoarse voice of Zebulon Strong, and the look which he threw upon the timid ones forced them into quietude. “We are not attacked yet. When the devils have forced the palisades and swarm up-stairs, then there will be time for shrieks. What do you see, Harmon?”
The interrogative was addressed to the youth with whom he had conversed a short time before, and the motion of the young man’s hand caused the commandant to step forward.
“Look through this loop, captain,” said Mark Harmon, stepping aside. “Look down the river. The Indians have fired on some fugitives, and they run for their lives.”
Zebulon Strong put his eyes to the loop-hole, and saw four dark figures running toward the fort. The foremost was a man, who carried a dark, human-shaped object over his left shoulder; the others, seemingly, were women.
“Open the gates and let ’em in!” cried a voice, and presently the same words were heard on all sides.
“I command this block-house!” and with a livid face and flashing eyeballs, Zebulon Strong sprung from the loop and wheeled upon his people. “The gates don’t open till I give the order. The Indians are ready for a rush so soon as the gates grind ajar. Every stump on the plain shelters a red-skin. No, the gates don’t open!”
“But the fugitives are the Logans and the Armstrongs!” remonstrated Mark Harmon, biting his lip with indignation.
“They belong at Throop’s!” hoarsely hissed the captain. “We’ll be massacred if we open the gates to them.”