WOLF-CAP;
OR,
THE NIGHT-HAWKS OF THE FIRE-LANDS.

A TALE OF THE BLOODY FORT

BY CAPT. CHAS. HOWARD,
AUTHOR “ELK KING,” “WOLF QUEEN,” “MERCILESS MATT.”

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

[I Doubly Warned] 9 [II Silver Hand, the Wyandot] 16 [III The Battle at Strong’s] 22 [IV Caught] 29 [V The Outcroppings of Treason] 36 [VI Without the Fort] 43 [VII The Work of a Lie] 49 [VIII A Bit of Mutiny] 56 [IX Sent Into Exile] 62 [X Baffled in Ambush] 68 [XI Treason in the Camp] 73 [XII Rowing and Running for Life] 79 [XIII The Last Night-Hawk] 84 [XIV Wolf’s Den] 91 [XV Retribution] 97

WOLF-CAP;
OR,
THE NIGHT-HAWKS OF THE FIRE-LANDS.

CHAPTER I.
DOUBLY WARNED.

A small apartment, walled with rough logs, and blackened by smoke.

A substantial fire burns in an uncouth but serviceable fireplace, and a man reclines on the puncheons in the ruddy blaze.

His sole companion is a huge yellow dog of the mastiff species; and his master’s long black locks rest upon his shaggy coat.

It is nine o’clock at night, and the moon shines in an unclouded firmament.

Not a sound disturbs the stillness of the wood; but just at the edge of the meager clearing that lies before the cabin, a little river flows northward with a low noise, for it is almost bank full.

Man and dog are wide awake; the former gazes into the fire, the latter looks up into the hard, sunbrowned face.

The master is a great, strong man, whose looks, physique and voice, when he speaks, indicates a long frontier life. He is perhaps three and forty years of age. Some would say that he is fifty; but people must not judge age by certain crows-feet on the brow; troubles make young men old. His occupation is revealed by a quantity of animal traps lying in one corner of the room, and suspended from a rafter overhead hangs a bundle of skins, ready for the market at Fort Sandusky.

But he rises and looks at the dog, who bristles up and runs to the door, protected by a strong oaken plank.

“What is it, Yellow Dick?” asks the trapper, standing beside his companion, rifle in hand, and peering into the moonlight through a crevice between two logs. “I would hev sworn that I heard the voice of a man; but—”

He paused abruptly, for Yellow Dick had suddenly pricked his long ears anew, and the trapper began to unbarricade the door.

“’Tis old Johnny, Dick, as sure as death,” he said, glancing at the mastiff while he worked at his plank. “He hasn’t been this way for a three month. Mebbe he brings news from the seat of war.”

The dog seemed to understand the man, for his fierceness abated, and he stepped from the portal.

“There! I knew it was Johnny Appleseed,” the trapper said triumphantly, as he opened the cabin door, and let a flood of moonlight into the dingy room. “Here he comes, down the river. What’s that he’s saying, Dick?”

The speaker leaned forward and caught these words uttered in a melodious voice:

“The spirit of the Lord is upon me, and he hath anointed me to blow the trumpet in the wilderness and sound the alarm in the forest: for behold the tribes of the heathen are round about your door, and a devouring flame followeth after them.”

The herald of danger stood near the edge of the water, and looked like some wild being from spirit-land.

“Old Johnny means somethin’; somethin’s gone wrong somewhar,” cried the trapper, becoming excited, and then in a louder tone he spoke the singular cognomen of the man of the wilderness—“Johnny Appleseed!”

The latter turned and after some hesitation came forward.

“Do not detain the Lord’s anointed long,” said the little wiry man, exhibiting his old restless activity, “for the Philistines are this night sweeping down upon the scattered tents of Israel, who will be found without the cities of refuge.”

“But, Johnny, what has happened?” queried the settler, who could not repress a smile at the herald’s quaint phraseology.

“The Philistines hold revel in the great walled city on the northern water.”

“What! has Hull surrendered?”

“Even so, Israel is again in captivity, and the families on her borders must feel the fire now.”

The trapper was silent for a while.

“Then the red-coated and red-skinned devils are coming to devastate the frontiers,” he said, in a tone scarcely audible.

“Their forces no man can number,” said the strange herald. “They are like the sands of the sea-shore. But I must go. I am appointed to deliver my message before every door in the forest, that the Lord’s chosen may flee from the wrath to come.”

“Then go, Johnny. I should not have detained you a minute. Yours is an errand of mercy. I have a duty to perform this night. Go, Johnny; tell them all of the swoop of the red eagles; and tell them that Wolf Cap says, ‘Fly to the block-houses without delay!’”

The pioneer hero started forward, but paused after taking a step, and drew the portion of an old volume from his bosom.

“Here news right fresh from heaven,” he said, and he tore a leaf from the book and handed it to the trapper.

It was a leaf from Swedenborg’s writings, for Johnny Appleseed—Jonathan Chapman—is no myth, and he was a true disciple of the Swedish seer.

Having accomplished his duty, the strange man, clad in nothing save a garment fashioned from a coffee sack, and bearing a long distaff, started off to spread dismay throughout the fire-lands.

“So Hull has surrendered,” muttered Wolf-Cap through clenched lips, as he turned into the cabin again. “I know it was a cowardly affair, for Detroit was proof against ten thousand foes; but Hull was the wrong man in the right place. I know it; I told the soldiers so when I war there not long ago. These frontiers hev got to be desolated now, through the cowardice of one man,” the lone trapper continued, busying himself with preparations for a night journey. “Our block-houses are poor excuses for bulwarks; but we must get the women and children in them as quickly as possible.”

He donned his hunting accouterments and the wolf-skin cap which had given him the sobriquet that entitles our romance, and replenished the fire.

“I’ll leave you to keep house, Dick,” he said, addressing the dog. “I’ll be back about daybreak. Now old fellow do your duty, and don’t let a sneakin’ red-skin over this portal.”

He patted the dog’s shaggy back, barricaded the door, and made his exit from the cabin, by the roof.

“I’m pretty sure that Johnny missed ’em,” he said, pausing for a moment beside the cabin and communing with himself. “He came down the river, and they are too far to his left. Yes, I guess he missed ’em.”

The last word still quivered his lips when he started in a north-easterly direction, leaving the river to his left.

A well-defined trail stretched before him, and he walked rapidly through the moonlit forest, trailing his long-barreled rifle at his side.

It was a night in August, 1812, and, as not a breath of wind was stirring, the heat was oppressive. Once or twice the hunter started a deer from the weed-fringed margin of some forest stream, or frightened a coyote from his feast of freshly-slain bird.

Suddenly he paused and listened to a silver voice, soaring skyward far away.

“That’s Huldah’s voice,” he said, audibly. “No woman can sing like her in these parts. I don’t know, but some how or other I think an uncommon sight of that girl. She looks so much like Bessie did twenty years ago,” and here the rough deer-skin sleeve dashed a tear from the speaker’s eye.

“But I wonder what makes her so happy just now—when terror sits in many a white girl’s heart. Ah! old Johnny did not warn them!”

He leaped the little rivulet by which he stood while speaking, and threaded the forest mazes again. Presently he came upon a neat clearing, in the center of which, surrounded by a rail-fence, stood a cabin, somewhat larger than his bachelor abode. An air of industry pervaded the spot, and the honeysuckles that half concealed the little square windows, proclaimed the presence of the softer—the flower-loving sex.

The song that had startled the trapper by the little creek, was mute now, and a dead silence brooded over the settler’s home, on which the moonlight softly fell.

Wolf-Cap leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing, and thought of the coming whirlwind of destruction.

He thought till he gritted his teeth, and started forward, impulsively.

“Here’s the toil of months,” he cried. “Levi has labored like a giant to build a shelter for Huldah’s head, and now to think that the flames must, in one brief hour, destroy it all. Oh, I wish I could wield the thunderbolts of heaven for a single minute!”

He approached the cabin boldly, his giant form bathed in moonshine, and a low growl saluted his ears as he stepped upon the little porch before the door.

“Who’s there?” said a woman’s voice, beyond the heavy door.

“Me—Wolf-Cap,” answered the trapper, and he heard nimble fingers undoing the fastenings.

“Come in, neighbor Belt,” said a voice as the door flew open, and a beautiful young girl, whose right hand griped a rifle, appeared to the hunter.

He obeyed, and as he crossed the threshold the door was closed again and barred.

“Ye warn’t lookin’ for me to-night, I guess,” he said, taking in the room at a glance.

“No, neighbor Belt; but you are none the less welcome. Father has just retired—”

“I’ll be thar in a minute, Belt,” interrupted a man’s voice in the next room. “I thought it war you when I heard your step on the porch. What’s up? Ye kin talk while I dress.”

“A good deal what’s bad is up,” said Wolf-Cap, in a loud one. “Hull has surrendered, and a swarm of British and Indians are pouring down upon the frontier.”

“Who told you, Belt?”

The speaker had appeared like a flash, and, scarcely more than half-dressed, stood before the trapper.

“Who told me?—Johnny Appleseed. He went down the last, Armstrong. We’ve enjoyed comparative quiet thus far during the war; but the cowardice—I know it was just that and nothin’ else—of Hull, has unloosed the dogs of hell, an’ they’ll be here pretty soon. To the block-house is the cry now. If safety lies anywhere, it is there.”

Levi Armstrong, the old settler, stood in the dim light of the tin fat lamp, and quivered with rage.

“Belt,” he said, slowly and with emphasis, “I’m not goin’ to give up the work of my hands without a struggle. You kin bet on that.”

“But Huldah must go to the block-house. Strong’s is the strongest, and best defended. We must act—”

“So long as father remains from the block-house I remain, too,” interrupted Huldah Armstrong, as she touched Wolf-Cap’s arm. “I share his love for our home. He shall not be separated from me.”

“Huldah, you must go to Strong’s to-morrow,” said Levi. “I will go with you.”

“Truly, father?”

“Truly, girl.”

“Then I am content to go,” she said. “When do you look for the marauders, neighbor Belt?”

“They are liable to come at any hour,” was the reply. “But in truth I do not look for them for several days yet. No doubt Johnny heard of the disaster from some Indian, and is many hours in advance of the slayers.”

“And what are you going to do, Belt?” asked Levi Armstrong.

“I had settled upon no plan of action. I’ve got a cabin, and I hate to leave it to the torch. The Night-Hawks are with Proctor, you know. I wonder if they will come down upon the frontiers?”

“To be sure they will, neighbor Belt.”

“God help the frontiers, then.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But I must go back,” said the trapper; “nobody is at home but Yellow Dick. I guess we’ll not go to the block-house till to-morrow night. I think we’re safe in keeping aloof till then; ’tis best, you know, to seem in ignorance of the threatening danger.”

“I think so too, Belt. You’ll come over to-morrow evening, ready for the run?”

“I’ll be here, and then”—with a glance at Levi that told much—“we’ll shelter our heads beneath Strong’s roof.”

Several minutes later Wolf-Cap was returning to his cabin, and at length the grayish dawn of day revealed it to him.

“Nobody has disturbed Dick,” he said, after inspecting the little structure’s surroundings. “He’s a good housekeeper—no woman in this land kin beat him, but— What’s that? By Huron! somebody hes nailed a piece of paper to my door.”

The trapper was walking forward while speaking, and it was a piece of paper on his cabin door that called the exclamation to his lips. With his eyes fastened upon the object, he quickened his steps, and presently paused on the flagstone stoop.

Before his eyes was a piece of dingy paper, bordered with blood, and held in its place by a knife, the point of which was buried deeply in the firm wood!

The uncouth letters had been traced on the dirty sheet with a stick dipped in gore, and were arranged in the following order:

“We hunt you. You know us. Fly or die!

“The Night-Hawks.”

The trapper looked at the warning a long time, and gradually a smile of contempt wreathed his lips.

“So, Royal Funk, you and your devils are in these parts again,” he said, “and I tell you, once for all, that I am not an illegal squatter. You can’t scare Card Belt.”

Then, without more words, he ascended to the roof and joined Yellow Dick, who received him with manifestations of delight in the room below. Fearlessly he threw wide the cabin door, and spread a map of the North-west, face downward, on the floor.

Then, with a piece of charcoal, he traced these words on the parchment:

“Roy Funk, I’m going to remain on the fire-lands. You can’t frighten me. I spare not and no mercy ask. No block-house shall shelter me!”

Twice the trapper read the defiance to his dog, as though the animal was possessed of comprehension, and then he pinned it to the door with the point of a knife.

CHAPTER II.
SILVER HAND, THE WYANDOT.

The reader has heard Wolf-Cap aver that he was not an illegal squatter on the fire-lands, and while he prepares to sustain the defiance nailed to his cabin door, let us inquire into the meaning of his declaration, and thereby, if possible, add to the interest of our story.

The “fire-lands” were not, as the casual reader would suppose, a tract of country blackened and rendered barren almost by the flames. On the contrary, their broad acres, well watered by majestic rivers, teemed with plenty, and even their indolent farmer to-day finds no starvelings about his premises.

Erie, Huron, and a small part of Ottawa counties, comprise that portion of the Western Ohio Reserve known as the fire-lands. The tract embraces five hundred thousand acres, and the term “fire-lands” originated from the circumstance of the State of Connecticut having granted these lands, in 1792, as a donation, to certain sufferers by fire occasioned by the English during the Revolutionary war, particularly at New London, Fairfield and Norwalk. Connecticut, at that time, holding jurisdiction over much land in Ohio, made other grants, of a nature similar to the above, and to this day the Western Reserve is often called by its old title—New Connecticut.

Though Wolf-Cap, or Card Belt, was not a sufferer at English hands, he had a right to the ground on which his little cabin stood. That right was a grant from the proprietors of the fire-lands; but he had had the misfortune to lose the document while en route to his claim. He had trapped along the streams of his native State, Connecticut, until they refused to yield the wished-for supply of fur-bearing animals, and, longing for a new pelt El Dorado, he fell in with the inducements offered by the settlements of New Connecticut.

He established his claim to a certain spot of ground, notwithstanding the loss of the title, and erected his cabin, in 1811. A treaty had previously been made with the Wyandots, who inhabited a portion of the ground, and until the breaking out of the war of 1812, the red denizens of the fire-lands had kept the promises of the treaty unbroken.

But in the settlement of the fire-lands, as in the settlement of all new countries, a class of rough characters appeared on the surface. These were, in the greater part, Canadian trappers, who were dwelling on the grant prior to its change of owners, and they refused to accede to the demands of the legal squatters. They had no right to the land, for they had been English soldiers, and disturbers of the peace between whites and Indians.

They drove honest squatters from their homes, and carried on a reign of terror throughout the fire-lands, until the Connecticut company overawed them with settlers. Still they carried on their lawlessness. At midnight they would break into some squatter’s cabin and demand a sight of his deed; and if the poor man could not produce it, as was often the case, considering the poor facilities extant those days for preserving paper documents, he would be hustled from his door, and the torch applied to the logs.

Wolf-Cap’s domicil was invaded one night, two months prior to the opening of hostilities; but he gave the Night-Hawks—as the outlaws were called—such a warm reception, that they were glad to depart without accomplishing their purpose. In the affray one of the scoundrels was fatally shot by the trapper, and their numbers thus reduced to nine.

The leader of the band was a rather handsome, brigandisa sort of man, boasting of the name of Royal Funk. He had served under Arnold in his descent upon Connecticut, and followed other Tories to the West after the patriot struggle. He had a commanding eye, and a nature fitted to lord it over a lot of low characters like those whom he drew around him in New Connecticut, and christened the Night-Hawks.

Their villainies were brought to a close by the declaration of war. One day they left the fire-lands, and joined the British army of the North-west, and the settlers breathed freer. They devoutly wished that every Night-Hawk might fall beneath American bullets, and for months the tract enjoyed a peace that seemed a foretaste of the one quiet peace called blessed!

British gold drew hundreds of savages to the flag of St. George; but a portion of the Wyandots adhered heroically to the American cause. The fire-land settlers centered all their hopes on Hull. If he would repulse the allies before Detroit, their homes were safe. If the General failed, then the Night-Hawks and their red helpers would return to devastate homes illy defended.

Therefore, the reader can imagine the terror spread throughout the grant by the wild message of Johnny Appleseed: “The tribes of the heathen are round about your doors, and a devouring flame followeth after them.”

“We are going to help Proctor. When we return, look out, usurper.”

Such words Wolf-Cap found chalked on his cabin door, on his return from Sandusky, one day in the spring lately passed. He saw that he had saved his life by being absent, and he awaited with impatience and anxiety the result of British operations in the North-west. Noble-minded and courageous, almost to a fault, he did not fear the threats of the Night-Hawks, as the reader has seen by his defiance; but the unprotected settlers called forth his sympathy.

“I’ll help take Huldah to Strong’s,” he said, looking at his dog, after posting his defiance, “and then I’ll make this cabin our castle, Dick. I don’t know as I’ve got much to live for, since Bessie left me, and I’ll try to rid the people of several of their plagues afore I go. Here be six rifles an’ plenty o’ ammunition, and we’ll drop a doe to-night, if it gets cloudy.”

The trapper hailed the approach of night with joy, and locking Yellow Dick within the cabin, took up the trail to Levi Armstrong’s hut. His frequent visits to the cabin had traced a well-defined trail, and as he hurried along, he planned for the future, which cast gloomy clouds over him—hunted man as he was.

“Just let any body touch one o’ Huldah Armstrong’s black hairs,” he suddenly exclaimed, aloud. “Just let ’em do it, I say, and, be he white or red, I’ll let a ray of sunshine through his heart. That girl is just the purest, fairest creature in New Connecticut, and I’m her champion, I am—Card Belt. I love that girl,” and in the gloaming a crimson flush appeared on his cheek; “but not like a young man. No! I’m old enough to be her father, and I love her because she looks like Bessie. I often wonder if she will ever have a young lover. Ah! if she gets down to Strong’s, the young bucks will go up over her face, and they won’t be able to drop an Indian for looking into her eyes.”

He communed thus with himself until he reached the creek near Armstrong’s clearing, when the whiz of a bullet broke his train of thoughts, and brought him to a sudden halt.

“That’s close,” he ejaculated, glancing at the work made by the ball in the tree near his head. “But a miss is as good as a mile, and I’ll show the greaser that two men can play with rifles at the same time.”

The next moment he sunk into the tall grass that lined the margin of the stream, resolved to outwit his foe.

“I begin to see through the mist,” he said, with a broad smile, a moment after disappearing among the grass. “Silver Hand is up to one of his old tricks again. Curse that Indian! I’ve got to break him of such practices. He shoots too uncommon close, sometimes.”

Then a bird-call issued from the trapper’s throat, and was answered from a spot a short distance away, on the opposite bank of the stream.

“I knew it was that red-skin,” and with the last word the trapper’s cap appeared above the grass. “Howsomever it is best to be cautious—there!”

A slight noise told that the cap had been struck by some object, and the hunter lowered it to find it perforated by an arrow of singular workmanship.

Then, placing the cap on his head without withdrawing the shaft, he rose to his feet simultaneously with the appearance of a tufted Indian beyond the murky water.

A minute later and the twain had met.

“Silver Hand, you haven’t visited a fellow much o’ late,” said Wolf-Cap, looking into the black eyes of the prepossessing young Wyandot. “I wasn’t looking for you hereabouts; but you’re the very chap I wanted to see.”

“Silver Hand glad to see Wolf-Cap, too,” said the Indian. “He much to tell white brother ’bout the big white coward in the north.”

“I don’t want to talk about Hull, chief,” said the trapper. “I swear away down in my heart when I think of his cowardice. But we have work to do. The frontiers swarm with fiends now, and I go to guide a family to Strong’s fort. Of course you’re going with me, Silver Hand; we’ll talk as we walk.”

The trapper started forward with a look at the Indian but the red arm darted forward and touched his arm.

“Wolf-Cap need go no further—house empty,” said Silver Hand.

“Whose house?” and a deathly pallor overspread the settler’s face, and told how he dreaded to hear the Wyandot’s answer.

“The house of the tall old pale-face and pretty girl.”

“Empty, Silver Hand? You must be mistaken. They were to wait for me.”

“But they gone, sure,” persisted the chief. “Silver Hand stop at cabin to tell them about the big coward; but he find nobody in house. The dog, too, was gone; but Silver Hand find paper on the door—paper with pale-face words on it.”

The chief produced a piece of paper from his bosom as he spoke, and handed it to the trapper.

It was night now, but the light of the rising moon enabled Wolf-Cap to decipher the rude writing on the sheet.

“We have gone to Strong’s with the Logans. We left at sundown, and you will find us in the old fort.”

Thus read the message on the door, and the trapper bit his lip when he looked up at the young warrior.

“Mebbe we’ll find ’em there and mebbe we won’t,” he said angrily. “I guess the Logans were frightened nigh to death, and would give old Levi no rest, until he promised to guide them to Strong’s. I thought he had a head of his own, and he promised to wait for me, too.”

Wolf-Cap was silent for several moments, and the Indian regarded him with a puzzled expression of countenance.

“When pale-faces leave lodge?” he questioned at length.

“At sundown. They’re not half-way to Strong’s now. We’ll let ’em go, though, Silver Hand; but we could intercept them if we wanted to. Old Levi needs a lesson for his action.”

“But his girl too putty to be in the woods at night. Bad Wyandots and Night-Hawks come down together from the north, and—”

“There! that’s enough, chief,” interrupted the trapper. “I could let old Levi go; but Huldah, never! Come! we kin catch ’em at the mouth of Eel Creek, for they’ve taken the black-deer trail to Strong’s. It’ll take fast travelin’, Silver Hand; but we kin do it. You an’ me kin do any thing.”

Silver Hand sprung to the task with great eagerness, and wheeling to the left, the twain hurried down the right bank of the creek. A rapid march of several hours brought them to the objective point; and Silver Hand at once dropped upon all-fours to examine the trail.

“Party gone by!” he said at last, looking up at the trapper. “Old settler, young man and four squaws. They walkin’ fast, too—almost run.”

“The—deuce!” exclaimed Wolf-Cap, much chagrined at the result of their journey. “But,” with a faint smile of satisfaction; “I’m glad they passed this point safely. It argues well for their arrival at Strong’s. How long since did they pass, Silver Hand?”

The Wyandot examined the trail again.

“Only little while ago; grass still bent down.”

“Then we stand some chances of catching them this side of Strong’s.”

“Yes, by fast walkin’.”

“I’ll see ’em inside the fort afore I go back to my hut,” said Wolf-Cap with determination. “Royal Funk and me for it, then, for I tell you, Silver—”

The distant report of a rifle broke his sentence, and caused him to shoot an anxious look into the Wyandot’s eyes.

Three more faint reports followed the first, and Wolf-Cap was about to spring forward, when Silver Hand thrust him backward toward the rushes that grew about the mouth of the creek.

“Chief—”

“‘Sh!”

The swift tread of feet was heard, and nine dark forms darted past the couple’s concealment, and disappeared in the darkness that hid from them the flash of the distant rifles.

Without a word, and at the same moment, the trail-hunters leaped to their feet.

For a moment they listened to the dying footsteps, and Silver Hand was the first to speak.

“Wolf-Cap count ’em?” he asked.

“Yes. American bullets have spared every Night-Hawk,” grated the trapper. “We must call ’em back,” and drawing a pistol from his belt he discharged it in the air.

The next second the admirable counterfeit of a death-yell pealed from the Wyandot’s throat, and the twain shrunk back into the rushes again to await the result of their stratagem.

“They’re comin’ back, chief,” said the trapper in a low tone. “Now, come with me. We’ll git between ’em an’ our friends if we can.”

Certain sounds told them that at least a goodly portion of the outlaws were returning, and silently they entered the water and waded away.

The sounds of battle toward Strong’s had died in the gloom, and an impenetrable vail of fearful mystery hung over the fate of the fugitives.

CHAPTER III.
THE BATTLE AT STRONG’S.

Strong’s block-house so frequently alluded to in the foregoing pages, had been erected as a place of refuge for the inhabitants of the “fire-lands.” It was a large structure, capable of affording shelter for fifty families, and built with a view to strength and endurance. The heavy logs were secured in the old dovetail fashion, and the roof was doubly clapboarded. The second story projected five feet over the first, thus enabling the defenders to fire upon any foe that might attempt to force the lower doors. The Huron river lay fifty yards from the front palisade of the block-house, which stood at the foot of a hill, cleared by the settlers’ axes.

The bottom of the hill was selected for the building site, owing to the proximity of water, and a well also yielded the life-giving fluid within the fort. The strong palisade that surrounded the “house of refuge,” was a double security, and the settlers felt proud of their work when completed. A stalwart settler named Zebulon Strong had superintended the erection of the stronghold, hence its rather imposing cognomen.

There were other block-houses in the “fire-lands”; but none were near enough to afford assistance to Strong’s in a case of imminent danger.

“I guess the families are all in now,” said Zebulon Strong, to a young man who was standing by a loop-hole, in the second story of the backwoods fort.

“All in, captain? bless you, no. The Logans are out yet.”

“And old Levi Armstrong, too,” said another settler, who, standing near, had caught the brief conversation.

“Yes, there is Levi; I had overlooked him,” the youth remarked quickly.

“He and the Logans do not rightly belong here,” said Strong. “Levi lent Throop a hand at his fort down on Massanga creek, and there he belongs. He will take the Logans with him.”

“But should he ask admittance here, you will not refuse, captain?”

“Our quota of families is full now. We can’t accommodate another,” answered Strong, with the air of a man elevated by a small command. “And, besides, I am confident that we are surrounded now. The girls maintain that they caught a glimpse of Indians at the river, and I, myself, have seen feathers on the top of the hill. They wait for the opening of the gates; but nothing under heaven can induce me to please them in that particular. We’ve a good supply of water, and I tell you, sir, that the gates don’t open again until the danger is passed.”

The foregoing conversation occurred on the night of Levi Armstrong’s abandonment of his cabin, and Zebulon Strong’s mien told that he was determined to adhere to his determination at all hazards.

Johnny Appleseed had performed a noble duty. Those whom he had warned allowed no grass to grow under their feet. While he yet lingered in sight of the uncouth cabin, it was deserted, and its inmates were flying toward Strong’s fort. All those who claimed shelter beneath its roof had caused their names to be registered in the commandant’s book, so, when the last registered family had passed the palisades, the gates were closed and barred.

The appearance of the Indians quickly followed the strange man’s warning. They had executed forced marches from Detroit, hoping to reach the “fire-lands” in advance of tidings of the surrender; but found themselves outwitted. This disappointment only strengthened their desire for blood, and on the evening that followed the gathering at the fort, they made their presence known.

After declaring that the gates should open no more until the danger had passed, Captain Zebulon Strong left the two men, the younger of whom turned to the loop-hole looking upon the level plain, that stretched from the block-house to the river. The moon was shining brightly, and from his elevated position he caught the shimmer of the Huron’s waves.

“I have seen no Indian feathers,” he murmured, sweeping the bank with his eye. “The captain is getting too arbitrary of late. It’s all well enough to be cautious; but this thing of barring the gates against our fellow-men won’t do.”

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.”

“Better die for an act of mercy than outraging the dictates of humanity.”

A contemptuous sneer came to the captain’s lips, and as he turned to the port-hole again he drew a pistol.

“I’ll kill the next man who talks of opening the gates this night,” he said, fiercely. “The fugitives might have been safe at Throop’s; let them pay for their decision at our palisades, if it comes to this.”

The women shrunk to the space allotted to them with epithets of “monster,” “fiend,” and the like, falling from their lips, and the men exchanged looks of indignation.

“They will reach the gates before their pursuers!” cried a watcher at a port-hole, joyously; but the words fell on blank ears, for the gates, alas! through the inhumanity of one man, would not be open to them.

“Levi is carrying his daughter,” said a second settler. “John Logan is not with them; he must have been shot down the river.”

The sight of the brave fugitives almost at his gates, and hard pressed by a savage foe, did not soften Captain Strong’s heart, in which cowardice and personal fear burrowed like a ground-hog.

The pale faces of the fugitives were visible in the moonlight, and all at once a cry came from the very shadow of the palisades:

“Open the gates!”

Zebulon Strong turned from the port-hole and halloed to the guards below:

“Watch the gates closely. Kill the first man who attempts to open them.”

“All right, captain!” responded a voice from the darkness below, and the commandant was rising erect when Mark Harmon leaped upon him.

The young frontiersman was almost as strong as the captain, and he bore him to the puncheons before he could resist.

“I’m sorry it comes to this, captain,” he said, beckoning several men to his assistance. “We’re not going to let women die at our doors when we can save them. Now lie still until we release you, or by heavens we’ll turn you without the fort!”

Other hands than the young borderman’s now seized the captain, who soon relinquished his struggles, and Harmon sprung to his feet.

“Quick, Mark!” cried a man at a port-hole. “Quick! they’re thundering at the gates.”

The next instant the youth had disappeared, and six stalwart bordermen vanished with him like a flash.

“Helpless friends are at the gate!” he cried, as, pistol in hand, he sprung toward the sentries. “We command this fort now. Stand back!”

The sentries, instead of retreating, flew to the work of unbarring the clumsy gate, and in a moment the work was accomplished.

“Have you no mercy, Captain Strong?” cried Levi Armstrong’s voice, while the eight men worked at the fastenings.

“Yes, yes—in a minute we’ll save you,” shouted young Harmon, and when the gate flew open he was the first to leap forward.

As he did so, full twenty dark forms rose from behind as many stumps, and the next second, a volley poured in at the gate.

Two of the rescuers staggered back, and Mark Harmon, uninjured, but with a wounded girl in his arms, turned to the gate again.

“Quick! they are charging you!” shouted a dozen agonized voices from the upper portion of the block-house; but such words were unnecessary, for the men at the gate comprehended their danger.

The clearing seemed literally covered with savages, and between the foremost and the bordermen a terrible fight was progressing at the palisades. A volley was poured into the red ranks from the port-holes, and a number fell; but the greater portion of the settlers had rushed below, and were trying to beat the red-skins from the gate that it might be closed.

At last, after half an hour of the most desperate fighting on record, the ponderous gate was swung to again and barred; and with blows indicative of future vengeance, on the heavy oaken boards, the Indians retreated to cover.

Twelve of their number had fallen in the attack, while no less than ten of the bordermen, or one fourth of the fort’s defenders, lay dead between the palisades and the strong logs.

But the mission of humanity had resulted in success!

Levi Armstrong, his daughter Huldah, and the Logan girls were safe, for a while at least, behind strong timbers; but the yells of their foes told the settlers that the Wyandot looked upon his defeat in the light of success.

He had reduced the number of the fort’s defenders, when not a single man could be spared, while the loss of his twelve braves would not be felt by the hundreds that still remained.

“Captain Strong,” said Mark Harmon after the fight, “we are willing to restore you to your command, for we honor your experience in Indian warfare. Humanity compelled us to treat you as we have. Now we are willing that the gates shall remain closed.”

“I should say you were,” said Zebulon Strong, with an ill-concealed sneer, as he glanced at the dead bordermen who had been borne into the fort, prior to burial. “I will take command again. I’m to be obeyed in every thing after this. We are besieged now, and like men we will die, if die we must, together.”

His speech was greeted with applause, and many despairing ones took new hope; but Levi Armstrong whispered to Mark Harmon:

“The captain must be watched. He hasn’t begun to forgive you fellers for savin’ our lives.”

After Zebulon Strong resumed command of the fort, its defensive resources were thoroughly inspected, and the dead buried.

The settlers knew that the siege would be pushed with the utmost vigor, and that every Indian artifice would be used to place them at the mercy of the tomahawk.

They could not look to final success, for their supply of water was meager, and the whole Indian force of the “fire-lands” could be brought to bear against them.

“There’s one man whom we should have with us,” remarked a young settler, in the presence of Captain Strong, shortly after the burial.

“Who is he?” asked a dozen voices.

“Wolf-Cap. I tell you he’s worth a dozen rifles.”

“Ay, a hundred,” said Mark Harmon. “If he and Silver Hand were in the fort!”

“We can get along without ’em,” grated Strong, shooting a fierce look at the young frontiersman. “We’ll fight our own battle without the aid of illegal squatters and Indians!”

His last sentence was uttered in a subdued tone, as he turned from the group, and other men than the old settler and Mark Harmon thought that the captain would bear watching.

CHAPTER IV.
CAUGHT.

Wolf-Cap entertained several good reasons for suggesting Strong’s fort as a place of refuge for the Armstrong family. Throop’s block-house was nearer the settler’s cabin than Strong’s; but the latter was better adapted for defense. It was the strongest post in the “fire-lands,” and the trapper assured himself that Zebulon Strong would receive the fugitives with open arms, and hail the settler’s presence with joy.

Left to his own choice, Levi Armstrong would have sought shelter at Throop’s, which post his hands had helped to rear, and consequently he could well claim protection there. The Logans, too, belonged to Throop’s; but fearful lest the little block-house, illy-defended, would soon succumb to the red tomahawk, they resolved to seek Strong’s. As the sequel will show, they would have fared better at the first-named fort.

The band of six fugitives, after leaving the Armstrong cabin, traveled fast. Levi counseled a delay till the arrival of Wolf-Cap; but John Logan and his sisters would listen to no such counsel, and the settler therefore broke his promise to the trapper.

The mouth of Eel Creek was reached, and the Huron crossed in safety, and the fears of the fugitives began to subside.

Strong’s fort would soon be reached, and then they could bid defiance to the fiends of the fire-lands.

But suddenly, while pushing down the left bank of the Huron, the report of a rifle saluted their ears, and John Logan fell to rise no more. Instantly the settler turned to combat his foes, when three more shots were poured into their little ranks by the hidden enemies, and then the fugitives, knowing themselves near Strong’s and ahead of the slayers, turned and fled.

Fortunately, the little party escaped injury by the second volley; but Levi lifted his daughter from the ground, and bore her, shielded by his body, to the frontier fort.

The Indians kept near the fugitives, but did not attempt to make a capture. They seemed bent on the success of some stratagem, which was seen by the whites at the eleventh hour. The fort was already invested by a powerful force of savages fresh from the victory at Detroit, and certain signals told the settlers’ pursuers of well-laid plans. But the bravery of the fort’s defenders had defeated the stratagem, as the reader has seen; but not without the loss of valuable men.

“Stop, chief! In the name of Heaven, listen to that.”

The speaker was Card Belt, and it was the volley fired by the stump-sheltered savages at the opening of Strong’s gates, that called forth his words.

“Indians attack fort,” said the Wyandot, in his native tongue. “White people get to gates, and when they open, Indians shoot.”

“But a real battle is raging. Hark! I hear the yells of the Indians. Come! we’ll go and help the boys!”

But the chief slowly shook his head.

“No use go there,” he said. “We can’t help pale-faces,” and standing in the shadows of several giant trees, the couple listened to the sound of battle.

The trapper, while he listened, acknowledged the strength of Silver Hand’s counsel. He believed that Fort Strong was invested, and knew that, for the present, they could render no assistance to its inmates. In the future, they might be able to help them.

At last the couple heard the yells of the beaten savages, and exchanged looks of satisfaction.

“I’d like to know whether Levi and his girl got into Strong’s or not,” said Wolf-Cap, with an anxious expression of countenance. “Silver Hand, they’d better not touch one o’ Huldah Armstrong’s hairs. I say I’ll kill the first fellar what does—there! I should judge that its pretty near midnight now,” he continued, after a pause, during which the Indian made no attempt to speak. “We’d better be movin’ somewhere. The fellars what we fooled down on Eel Creek haven’t passed yet; but mebbe they’ve joined their red brethren by another route. They could do that, you know. The troubles of Strong’s fort has begun now, and we’ve got to help ’em, somehow or other. But first, let’s go down to my hut and stir up a few eatables. Besides, I want to see if every thing’s right thar, and to liberate Yellow Dick.”

The Wyandot acquiesced in the trapper’s proposition, and a moment later the spot was deserted.

Silver Hand belonged to the same nation that besieged Fort Strong with malicious intent. During the Revolutionary war the Wyandots divided; a faction headed by the celebrated Captain Pipe aided the British, while the minor division, under the leadership of White Eyes, sided with the colonies. The factions refused to come together after the war, so when the second trouble with English oppression sought the combat of lead and steel, the unreconciled Indians resumed their old relations. The English Wyandots, led by Splitlog and Roundhead joined Proctor’s forces, while the friends of the United States opposed them. To the latter party Silver Hand belonged.

He was present at the encounter of Hull, but effected his escape after that catastrophe, and hastened to his old hunting-grounds—the fire-lands.

The white trapper and his staunch red ally reached the vicinity of the proscribed cabin during that period of darkness preceding dawn.

The skies were darkened overhead, for the moon had disappeared, and the scene was made quite dismal by the ominous hootings of a great owl perched upon the cone of the hut.

“Things are too still here for me, Silver Hand,” whispered the trapper, in his cautious tone, when they had halted near the solitary hut. “I’ve come home at all times o’ nights and mornin’s, but never afore hev I see’d an owl on the roof. Jest listen to ’im. Why I kin hear ’im say ‘go away’ as plainly as I hear his voice. No, chief, I don’t rush into the old hut jist now. We’re on the edge of a trap!”

Silver Hand did not appear to hear the trapper’s words.

His body was bent forward, and he was trying to discern the minutiæ of the cabin and its immediate vicinity. But the darkness baffled him.

For the period of an hour the twain crouched, like bowlders, in their place of concealment, and then Wolf-Cap moved forward, leaving the Indian to await his return.

He approached the cabin until the owl suddenly vacated his perch, and hied away to the forest. Quickly but noiselessly, then, the trapper returned to his ally.

“Owl gone,” said Silver Hand, before the white man could find a tongue. “Who scared ’im?”

“That’s jest what I’m goin’ to tell you, chief. My cabin is inhabited. I know it, and somebody from the inside frightened that owl. I know that the bird didn’t leave of his own accord, and he didn’t see a mouse, either. Now, I’m going to find out who’s taken possession of the hut.”

Thereupon a series of snake-like movements were inaugurated by the couple, who succeeded in passing around the cabin without discovering a foe.

Whoever was in the hut kept very quiet, and the mystery deepened with each succeeding moment.

His dog’s silence increased Wolf-Cap’s suspicion of foul-play. Yellow Dick had always greeted his return with a peculiar cry; but now the death of silence reigned, and the trapper had touched the wall of his old home without eliciting any noise from the dog.

A second inspection of the clearing and adjacent forest followed the first, and then Wolf-Cap turned suddenly upon the Indian, with compressed lips.

“I won’t stand it any longer,” he said, sternly. “The rascal’s got to show himself now. Watch everywhere, chief, while I oust ’im. If I don’t do it, the Night-Hawks will.”

The last sentence was spoken in an undertone; and with a quantity of light brushwood the trapper moved toward the cabin.

By the help of steps cut in the logs he ascended to the roof, and deposited his burden between the dry clapboards. Then he sprinkled a quantity of powder among the combustible stuff, and ignited the whole with his flints.

“Now!” he exclaimed, springing to the ground and glancing up at the fire taking firm hold on the clapboards. “Now, I fancy as how the fellow will show himself.”

His surmises proved correct.

The tenants of his cabin did show themselves. The roof of the cabin was soon in a blaze, and the twain watched the door with ready rifles. A lurid light overspread the clearing, and bathed the bosom of the river in romantic beauty.

By and by the trapper began to think that, after all, he had surmised incorrectly, for the howls of a dog emanated from the burning building. Silver Hand listened to the cries, the suspicious part of his nature fully aroused, and himself undecided how to act.

Wolf-Cap wanted to save his dog, and the Indian noted the working of his face in the firelight that stole to their retreat.

“Silver Hand, I’ve been taken in,” said Belt, suddenly. “I can’t hear Dick howl that way. By Huron! he shan’t cry for mercy when I am about!”

“But why he keep still so long?” retorted Silver Hand, quickly. “Trapper answer that if he kin!”

It is doubtful whether Wolf-Cap caught the gist of the Wyandot’s sentences, for he jerked his arm from the red fingers that encircled it, and rushed in to the firelight.

The thought of his noble dog—the guardian of his life and home for many years—cooped up within a blazing building, blinded him to the arguments of caution, and the Indian muttered an oath and leaped to his feet when he saw that Wolf-Cap was gone!

The daring trapper had reached the path that led from his door to a spring near the river, when he suddenly paused.

A strange and suspicious voice beyond the logs had startled him.

It sounded like a man’s voice, and his acute senses had already shaped it into the words, “All ready?”

He had not time to turn to join Silver Hand nor to signal him. He was within six feet of the cabin door, and was looking to his rifle, when the ponderous oaken portal swung wide, and five stalwart fellows threw themselves upon him.

They—the Night-Hawks—were the tenants of his cabin!

He retreated a step, and delivered a shot that stretched one man upon the ground, and then, after a desperate struggle, he was secured and his weapons taken from him.

Silver Hand lent no assistance to his friend; and his assistance would have availed the trapper nothing. Therefore the chief’s disappearance was not a sign of cowardice; on the contrary it was a sign of good judgment, big with assurances of future help.

“So, cabin-burner, you have bid defiance to the Night-Hawks,” said the spokesman of the outlaws, pointing to the paper still visible on the cabin door: “No block-house shall shelter me. I spare not, and no mercy ask.”

A wild laugh greeted this quotation from the trapper’s defiance, and the outlaws crowded near him.

“Men, I mean every word I have written on my door,” he said, calmly. “There war nine of ye; there ar’ but eight now,” and here his glance fell upon the man whom he had shot dead. “I war willin’ to take the odds ag’in’ me for I am no illegal squatter, and I hate outlaws. Royal Funk, I am free to confess that you’ve got the upper hand now.”

“And I’m going to keep it, Card Belt,” replied the desperado, with a smile. “I posted a fair warning on your door last night. ‘Fly or die,’ it said. You would not fly, so—”

“I must die, eh?”

“Just so.”

“When—now?”

“No. We’re going to take you down to the Indians at Fort Strong, and I guess the Night-Hawks will treat the settlers to a public execution. You and Silver Hand played it on us to-night. We were following the Armstrongs when you called us back.”

“So you came down here and hid in the old cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Whar’s my dog?”

“In the house.”

A twitch of pain followed by an angry pallor, came to the trapper’s lips, and the light of vengeance flashed in his eyes.

“Come, Frank, let’s be goin’,” said one of the outlaws at this juncture. “’Tis gettin’ day, an’ Splitlog may need us at Strong’s. We want to be there at the death.”