“Where’s the cap’n?” asked Vanderberg, touching a woman’s arm—and the dame could not repress a cry when she looked up into his white face.
“Here,” called a lusty voice from a darkened corner, and a tall form advanced toward the guard. “I’m here—what’s wanting?” and then the commander caught sight of Vanderberg’s face. “Roger Vanderberg, what are you doing here?” he cried, and his hand closed on the settler’s arm. “Your post is at the outer gate. What can have brought you hither? Speak! These are nights when traitors are abroad.”
The guard, now thoroughly alarmed and frightened, could not find his tongue for a moment.
“And Poston, you here too? Who is at the gate?”
“Sir, your daughter and Matt Hunter,” cried Vanderberg, with considerable fire in his tone. “He sent me up to the council.”
“Council? there’s no council here,” and the old settler’s cheeks suddenly grew pale. “I never sent for you—never! Matt Hunter must mean something terrible. We’ll go down and see.”
He sprung to the hatch, and quickly disappeared, followed by the sentries.
The lower guard opened the door without a challenge, and the trio passed into the yard.
There Levi Armstrong’s worst fears were realized. The gate was deserted and stood ajar!
Deserted? No! At the foot of one of the posts lay the body of a man.