led to believe would fall an easy prey to the
King's soldiers. He had lost one-third of his men. Those who were
left refused to run straight in the face of certain death. They had
not been drilled to fight an unseen enemy. Capt. Pratt was compelled
to order a retreat to the river bluff, where he conferred with
Girty.

Inside the block-house was great activity, but no confusion. That
little band of fighters might have been drilled for a king's
bodyguard. Kneeling before each porthole on the river side of the
Fort was a man who would fight while there was breath left in him.
He did not discharge his weapon aimlessly as the Indians did, but
waited until he saw the outline of an Indian form, or a red coat, or
a puff of white smoke; then he would thrust the rifle-barrel
forward, take a quick aim and fire. By the side of every man stood a
heroic woman whose face was blanched, but who spoke never a word as
she put the muzzle of the hot rifle into a bucket of water, cooled
the barrel, wiped it dry and passed it back to the man beside her.

Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire. A glancing ball had
struck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. It was now
being dressed by Col. Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were
already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries
received by the defenders. In all that horrible din of battle, the
shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the
boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the
whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid
the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight
of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's brave
wife had never faltered. She was here and there; binding the wounds,
helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by
her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear
up under the awful strain.

Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the
ladder almost without touching it. Blood was running down his bare
arm and dripping from the ends of his fingers.

"Zane, Martin has been shot," he said hoarsely. "The same Indian who
shot away these fingers did it. The bullets seem to come from some
elevation. Send some scout up there and find out where that damned
Indian is hiding."

"Martin shot? God, his poor wife! Is he dead?" said Silas.

"Not yet. Bennet is bringing him down. Here, I wan