It was discovered that it had suffered quite severely during the battle. From behind stumps, the Indians had fired into the ports, distinctly revealed by the widely-leaping flames of the roof, and with fatal effect. The majority of the stricken settlers were killed outright—shot through the head—while every wound was dangerous. Twenty-one men had fallen, including the loss at the gate and another, Morgan Sawyer, had deserted.
The well-diggers struck water as the storm broke over the fort; but they did not cease their labors, for they knew that it would not last long—a summer shower, but a furious, a saving one.
“Miss Armstrong, can I trust you?”
“You can.”
“Then come with me.”
The first speaker was Matt Hunter, the man whom Captain Strong had placed over the well after Sawyer’s defection.
He was a small, wiry man, rather prepossessing in appearance, and had fought like a tiger with the water buckets.
Huldah Armstrong drew from his look that he had something in view for the good of the garrison, and followed him to the gangway.
But, as the settler had put his foot on the first round of the ladder, the face of a strange man was revealed below, and he started back.
“Wolf-Cap!” he shouted to the busy men and women about him. “Wolf-Cap is here!”