“Andrews told me, an hour since. But can we rely on him?”
“We can,” said O’Neill, assuringly, and with emphasis. “Strong, at the heart, is a coward, yet he will do desperate things. He was a secret Tory in Herkimer county, New York, during the Revolution, and while campaigning in that region, I became acquainted with him. More than once he furnished me with valuable information concerning the movements of the enemy, and I believe that the rebels never suspected him. His loyalty to King George has never for a moment abated. I tell you we have a friend in Fort Strong, without whom we could do nothing. For Splitlog was about to relinquish the siege when the deserter reached our camp with Strong’s proposition. Now the Indians will stay with us. But the thread of your story has been broken. I want to know what you are going to do with the squatter.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you in a few words,” answered the leader of the Night-Hawks. “I’m going to marry Huldah Armstrong in his presence, after the Wyandot fashion, and then—why, then I’m going to dispose of him.”
“After the Wyandot fashion, also, I suppose,” smiled the colonel.
“Just so,” said Funk, returning the smile. “When do you open the battle?”
“The Indians are preparing the fiery arrows now,” was the reply. “Ha! there goes one, already!” and the colonel’s hand directed the outlaw’s gaze to a blazing arrow shooting toward the fort.
It was quickly followed by another and another, until a perfect shower of fiery missiles rained upon the fort.
But the firm and dry clap-boards that formed the roof resisted nobly, and the arrows rebounded and dropped into the yard below.
“We must get the arrows under the boards,” said O’Neill, turning to the chief, Splitlog, who stood at his side. “Send some of your bravest Wyandots nearer the fort, and tell them to shoot their red arrows beneath the roof.”
“Indians get shot down if they go nearer fort,” returned the chief, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Let white chief send his men.”