With Washington in the west;

“We are eleven all told,” said Dave, when he came up to his position in the loft of the log house. “The Indians in those canoes must number at least twenty or twenty-five.”

“Wall, we have an advantage,” replied Putty, who stood near. “We are under cover, and they won’t be, when they attack us.”

“Can they be friendly?”

“Friendly Indians don’t travel far in the rain. However, we can hear what they have to say when they come up.”

The possibilities of an attack had been talked over so many times that now when it looked as if it was really coming, each man knew what was expected of him and it was not necessary to tell him where to go. Four, including Dave, were stationed in the loft of the log cabin, at sheltered port-holes placed there when the post was built. The others went below, to the stockade and to the stables.

Barringford cautioned all to keep silent and hardly a sound broke the stillness five minutes after Dave had rushed in with the news. Each man was on the alert, with loaded rifles ready to hand and powder and ball close by. The storm was now over and here and there the stars were struggling through the scattering clouds.

Presently Dave pulled Putty by the coat sleeve. “An Indian!” he whispered. “Look!”

Dave was right, an Indian had appeared down by the garden clearing. He walked swiftly but noiselessly toward the stockade but came to a halt when he reached the angle and found the gate closed.

“Wall, Injun, what do ye want here this time of night?”

The question came from Sam Barringford, who had his station close by the gate. His rifle was thrust through the port, and his face peered forth over the muzzle.

If the red man was taken by surprise he did not show it. He came to a halt.

“Red Bird wants to come in,” he said, in smooth tones. “Red Bird and his followers are wet and hungry.”

“Ye don’t generally travel in the rain, Red Bird.”

“Red Bird and his braves were on the river. The canoes were split on the rocks and lost. We tramped many miles through the woods, and are without food.”

“Whar did ye git upsot?”

“At the Minnewah Falls. Three canoes were lost.”

“Where are the other canoes?”

“We had but three.”

“It ain’t so, Red Bird; ye had five canoes and none of ’em was lost. You go away from here and come around when it is daylight.”

“The white man will not open the gate for Red Bird and his braves?”

“Not to-night. Your canoes are below here in the bushes. Go to them and paddle back to Jean Bevoir and tell him the plan to surprise us has failed,” went on Barringford, sharply.

At this the Indian uttered a grunt of disappointment and disgust. “We must come in,” he insisted. “We are cold, tired and hungry.”

“You’ll git away—and quick!” ordered Barringford and raised the muzzle of his rifle until it was leveled at the Indian’s head. At once the red man turned and sped away whence he had come.

“Wall, did I do right?” called out the old hunter, after the Indian was gone. He no longer thought it necessary to remain silent.

“Ye did,” answered Putty, who was the leader of the others. “Wonder how soon he’ll be back?”

“Perhaps he won’t come,” put in Dave. “I trust he doesn’t.”

“Trust nothin’, lad, they’ll come afore ye know it.”

Putty had scarcely spoken when a savage war-whoop rang out just beyond the clearing, answered by another whoop from up the river. Then as if by magic Indians appeared to spring up all around the trading-post. All rushed forward, some with guns and others with bows and arrows, and all with tomahawks at their girdles. The yells were deafening and for the moment Dave was dazed by the sight and the noise.

“Oh, what a crowd—at least forty or fifty of them!” he gasped. “We can’t stand against so many. They——”

The end of his remark was cut short by the report of Barringford’s rifle, followed by the crack! crack! of several other guns. Putty was at a port hole trying to pick off one of the leaders. The Indians had also fired, but none of the whites were reached. Two of the red men went down, and now Putty dropped a third, which, later on, proved to be Red Bird himself.

With his heart almost in his throat, Dave shoved his own rifle through one of the holes. An Indian was sneaking around the angle of the stockade, followed by half a dozen others. Bang! went the youth’s firearm, and the leading red man fell, shot through the thigh. But the others kept on and almost before those inside knew it three were over the stockade and more were following.

But now Barringford showed his backwoods training and his unbounded courage. Taking a quick aim he sent one Indian to earth with a bullet through his breast. Then, as another red man fired on him, hitting him in the shoulder, he swung his gun around, and down went the enemy with a crushed arm. With his own left arm hanging limply at his side, the old hunter leaped in again, swinging his rifle at arm’s length and mowing down two others as with a scythe.

“Want ter fight, eh?” he roared. “All right, I’ll give ye all ye want! Thet fer ye, an’ thet! I’m a painter when I’m aroused, an’ don’t ye forgit it—a roaring, howling mountain lion an’ painter rolled inter one! Thar’s a wolloping fer ye!” And he danced around like a madman, moving so quickly that try their best the Indians could not reach him. His coonskin cap was off, his hair was flying freely about his head, and his eyes blazed with the fury of a serpent.

The others were not idle. With the close approach of the Indians, those in the loft hurried below, and soon Putty was in the yard along with two others, fighting fiercely at close range. Arrows were flying in all directions and just as Dave appeared at a window one whizzed past his ear and buried itself in the wall opposite. He heard one old hunter named Larrison give a cry of mortal agony and saw him pitch forward on the grass dead, and saw one of the friendly Indians go down, shot in the leg. In the meantime the other Indians had caught one of Red Bird’s followers near the stables and had tomahawked and scalped him.

In the midst of the tumult, and when it was impossible to tell how the encounter was going, another war-whoop rang out, coming from the forest to the eastward. This was a new cry, different from that heard before, and both the whites and the Indians around the stockade listened in amazement.

“It’s the war cry of the Delawares!” ejaculated one of the men. “It must be White Buffalo and his braves!”

“White Buffalo!” exclaimed Dave. “Pray God it is! He will surely aid us.”

The war cry continued, and as it came closer, the whites saw that the Miamis were much disturbed, not only by this but by the fall of Red Bird, who had led the expedition, Fox Head being away on a mission to the French. Suddenly one gave a signal and at this the Miamis began to withdraw as quickly as they had appeared.

“They are retreating!” said Dave, joyfully. “It must indeed be White Buffalo who is coming. See them run!”

“Give it to ’em!” was the cry from several sides. “Don’t let them escape! They need the lesson!” And as the Indians retreated, the stockade gate was swung open and those who were able to do so ran out, firing as they went. At the same time the Delawares also opened fire from the forest and then came leaping on, whooping at the top of their lungs and flourishing their tomahawks.

Feeling that the contest was lost to them, the Miamis fled down the river to where they had left their canoes. Three of the craft managed to get away, having sixteen or eighteen warriors on board. The other canoes were sunk while yet close at hand, and the swimmers were either shot down in mid-stream or tomahawked when they came ashore. This completion of the battle was left entirely to the Indians themselves, the whites thinking it their duty to remain in the vicinity of the trading-post.

At last, just as it was growing light in the east, some of the Delawares came back and with them White Buffalo. Each of the party carried a fresh scalp at his girdle and the chief looked the pride he felt.

“White Buffalo!” cried Dave, and ran to meet him and shake hands. “You did us a great service.”

“White Buffalo heap glad to help his white brothers.”

“Did you know the Miamis were coming here?”

“White Buffalo learn something of it—but not much. March here to make sure. Know white boy’s father is away.”

“You are indeed a friend, White Buffalo, and father will not forget this, nor will I. Had you not come up it might have gone badly with us.”

“It is the work of the French, not of the Miamis,” went on the Indian. “Red Bird was paid for this work. A brave told me he saw the wampums passed, at a meeting last full moon.”

“Did Jean Bevoir give the wampums?”

“He did, but they came not from Bevoir but from a greater trader—a French half-breed named Joncaire, he who is close to the French governor.”

“Captain Joncaire!”

“It’s jest like the dirty sneak,” burst out Barringford, who sat by dressing his wound. “I know the cap’n well. He’s an oily talker and smooth, but a reg’lar snake in the grass with it. But I allow this will teach him and his kind a lesson.”

“But it may bring us into trouble with the French government,” said Dave.

“What of it, lad? The trouble’s been a bilin’ and a bilin’, and it’s got to come sooner or later. Let it come, say I, and the sooner it does the sooner it will be over. They can put down stakes and nail lead plates to the trees all they please, but that won’t make this country theirs. The land belongs to the Indians and to their English brothers; ain’t that so, White Buffalo?”

“My brother the great hunter speaks the truth,” responded the Indian chief. “War is coming. Old Garudah hath foretold it and what Garudah says will surely come to pass.” Garudah was an old Delaware squaw, the daughter of Shannarion the medicine-man, and much believed in as a prophetess.

White Buffalo did not wish to remain at the trading-post and after a hearty breakfast he and his braves departed, taking with them the scalps of all the enemies that had been slain. They had lost two warriors and these they buried according to their Indian custom.

The day proved a busy one to those left at the post. The wounded were cared for and the dead buried. Out of the garrison Larrison and one Indian were dead, and three were wounded but none seriously. The Indian was placed beside White Buffalo’s followers and the old hunter was buried on a slight knoll overlooking the brook. Dave read the burial service in a voice choked with emotion, and later on made and erected a rude cross over the grave, with Larrison’s full name painted upon it.