stump near a corner of
the station. From there he called. They heard.

"What do you want?"

"You are brave men and women. Listen. I bring you terms. You have
fought well, and done all that you can do. It is useless to fight
farther. We know your numbers. We have six hundred warriors and
whites, and cannon are coming. They will be here shortly. They are
not like rifles. With them we can blow your walls into the air. Then
the Indians will pour in, and nothing can protect you, your women and
children. Not a life will be spared. But surrender, and I give you my
word of honor that no hair of your heads shall be harmed."

There was a moment of silence. The mention of cannon had had its
effect. True enough, cannon had been used, of late, against other
stockades, with dire results.

A brave voice answered Simon Girty.

"You lie. Go back to your Injuns before a bullet pierces your coward
heart."

"Who says I lie?" Girty demanded, with a show of being much hurt. "Do
you know my name, sir? I am Simon Girty."

Aaron Reynolds replied to him. He was a spirited young man, and had
noticed that some of his companions were sobered by the word "cannon."

"We know you very well. I have another worthless dog to which I've
given the same name--Simon Girty, because he looks like you. If you
have either cannon or reinforcements, or both, fetch 'em along. But if
you or any of your naked rascals succeed in finding your way into this
fort we're ready for you. We'd despise to use guns on you. We have
bundles of switches waiting, and we'll switch you out again. As for
your reinforcements, there are plenty now coming to our aid likewise.
I'll have you know that more are to follow those already here. The
whole country is arming; and if you and your gang of murderers linger
twenty-four hours longer, your scalps will be drying in the sun on the
roofs of these cabins."

Simon Girty made a show of bristling, indignant.

"I spoke to you out of humanity. You answer with insult and the tongue
of a boy. Your blood is on your own heads. I grieve at your fate.
To-morrow morning you will all be dead."

He crawled back again. But, cheering, the garrison took heart at the
bold words of Aaron Reynolds.

The night passed. In the morning the landscape smiled again. A few
camp-fires idly smoked. That was all. Not an Indian remained. The
whole savage army had gone.

CHAPTER X

BETTY ZANE'S "POWDER EXPLOIT" (