Then he ran toward the hill under cover of the intense darkness. For dense clouds obscured the sky from horizon to horizon, thus effectually blotting out the light of the moon.
Captain Strong had hardly gained the interior of the fort, when Sawyer’s escape was discovered.
“What! a traitor among us?” cried the commander, counterfeiting indignation and surprise to an admirable degree. “And at the gate, too! Harmon and Cole, at once to the portals! I know you can be trusted. Matt Hunter, you will take Isaac’s place at the well. Curse Morg Sawyer! may the fiends scalp him for his treachery!”
The commander’s wish was echoed by more than one determined settler, who waited for the onslaught of the savages.
The men at the embrasures listened and looked for their foes, and Zebulon Strong walked uneasily about, listening all the time for a certain sound.
Once or twice he pushed the long black locks from his ears, and paused for a moment at one of the ports.
Suddenly a pistol-shot came from the hill, then another, and another.
Strong was descending to the first floor of the block-house when the sounds fell upon his ears, and he paused in the center of the ladder with a smile.
“Morg has succeeded,” he said, in the lowest of mutterings. “Now let Hunter do his duty.”
The pistol-shots died away, and no volley of musketry followed.