et him alone; the men
and women peered anxiously through the cracks in the palisades--his
frenzied wife and children cried piteously, urging him on.

But he collapsed in a patch of thin brush, and lay lax, plain to see.

Captain Logan sprang to the gate.

"Who will go with me to rescue Burr Harrison?" he thundered.

The voices of the women were stilled; the men hesitated, looking one
upon another. The Indians evidently were waiting for just such a try.
How many lurked in the thicket? Who might tell? A report from those
days says fifty-seven; chronicles say one hundred, two hundred. It is
difficult to count Indians skulking amidst bushes and trees. At any
rate there were plenty. One hundred had attacked Harrodsburg; a like
number had attacked Boonesborough; probably one hundred guns commanded
the gateway of Logan's Station.

It looked to be certain death for any two men venturing outside.

"Who will go with me to rescue Burr Harrison?" Captain Logan repeated,
seeking right and left with his dark face and flashing black eyes. His
brave wife uttered never a word to hold him back.

"I'd be your man, Cap, but I'm weakly yet," spoke one.

"I'm sorry for Burr, but in a case like this the skin is tighter than
the shirt," muttered another.

"Will you let Captain Logan go alone?" reproached the women.

"No. I'm with you, Cap," exclaimed John Martin. "A man can die but
once, and I'm as ready now as I'll ever be."

"Open the gate. Keep the savages off us. That's all we ask," Captain
Logan ordered.

He and John Martin stood, braced for their dash. The gate was swung
ajar, and instantly they dived through. But as if he had gained
strength, Burr Harrison rose to his knees. Seeing, John Martin whirled
and leaped back under cover again. He afterward explained that he
thought Burr was coming in of himself, and rifles would be needed more
in the fort than outside.

Captain Logan only paused; then, crouched, he darted on, for Harrison
had toppled. During the space of just a moment or two the Indians were
silent. Now, before he had reached his goal, a musket whanged, from
the thicket--a second followed--the firing swelled to a volley, while
the stockade answered.

Was he down? No, not yet. He had seized Burr, and hoisting him in his
two arms was coming at a plunging run through the spatter of bullets
and the drift of powder-smoke.

The gate swung wider. He was here--he panted in, out-sped by the balls