For a time the two white boys and the young Cherokee hunter gazed in silence at the sparkle of the Creek camp-fires; the woods seemed studded with them; hundreds of savages must have been camped within a circle of a half mile.

“It’s almost a miracle how we got into the midst of them like this without seeing any of them, or their seeing us,” said Frank Lawrence.

“We’d been traveling very quietly,” said Jack. “I suppose that accounts for it. But,” and he gazed around at the gleaming sparks of red light among the trees, “we must get out of this, and before daylight. If we don’t, we’ll be caught as sure as the sun rises.”

“No get away in morning,” said Running Elk. “Best go now. Too many warriors to fight.”

In the direction from which they came the camp-fires of the Indians were fewer; so the boys mounted once more and headed in that direction, aiming at a point between two of them which were farthest apart and therefore seemed to afford the best way out.

There followed what they would all remember as one of the most perilous half hours of their lives; but, at length, they were out of the region of the camps and were making good speed away in the darkness.

“Once or twice I thought sure that a sentinel would call to us,” said Frank.

“We were so close to them that they couldn’t help thinking we were members of their own party,” said Jack, “and as they couldn’t make us out in the dark we had a few chances in our favor.”

“Creek heap much sleep on watch,” charged Running Elk, with contempt. “No good!”

The three rode all night; and as morning dawned, they saw signs of the white man’s hand all about them.

“Hello!” cried Frank, “we’re closer to the settlements than I thought.”

“Unless I’m wrong by a good deal,” said Jack, “we’re not far from Fort Mims.”

“Fort there,” said the Cherokee, pointing toward a distant strip of woodland. “Other side of trees.”

They did not go into camp, though tired by their night in the saddle; but cheerily rode toward the fort, feeling that a good breakfast awaited them. An hour’s ride brought them in sight of the fort, which stood on Lake Tensaw.

Fort Mims was built and occupied by a half-breed named Samuel Mims, who had lived there in the wilderness many years. His house was a stout one of logs, and was surrounded by a stockade, pierced by loop-holes for rifle fire in case of attack. The place was only a little distance from the lake; all about it was forest, marsh and ravines. A large gate was let into the stockade at the north and there was another at the south.

When the Creeks began their depredations on the border, the settlers of that section had flocked to Fort Mims. At this time there were some seventy-five men, mostly white, but some also of mixed blood, gathered behind the shelter of the stockade; and with these were a great number of women and children.

A month before, General Claiborne, who was in command of the United States forces in Alabama, dispatched Major Beasley and one hundred and seventy infantry to this place. Claiborne recognized the seriousness of the situation and thought it best to be prepared. When Beasley reached Fort Mims he found an officer and about a score of soldiers already there; and in taking charge, proceeded to organize the settlers into a fighting force, of which a young half-breed named Dixon Bailey was made captain.

A week or so after this force was located at the fort, General Claiborne paid a visit to the place; seeing with a practiced military eye the weakness of its defense, he urged the strengthening of the stockade, and the completing of a blockhouse which had been started some years before, but never finished.

Major Beasley was a man of unquestioned courage; but he was a poor officer. Being of a sanguine, optimistic nature, and with little imagination, he belittled the urgency of the occasion. He had a contempt for the warlike qualities of the red men, and did not think it worth while to erect the defenses recommended by the general. There were six hundred people gathered in the enclosure; and with half of these fighting men, he ridiculed the idea of danger.

The boys stood in a fringe of woods. From there they sighted the fort, and saw one of the gates standing wide.

“And there is no guard,” said the observant Jack Davis. “That looks like a foolish thing to do in a time like this.”

The boys were about to ride forward when Running Elk hurriedly, and in a low tone, said:

“No go! Creek braves out there!”

Drawing in their mounts, Jack and Frank looked keenly about; sure enough, from above the high grass at a point indicated by the young Cherokee, they saw the nodding eagle plumes of a half score savages.

“And watching the fort,” whispered Frank.

“Creek make ring around fort,” said Running Elk.

“It’s true!” said Jack, startled, his roving glance taking in the indications. “They’ve got it surrounded, and are tightening the circle all the time.”

THEY SIGHTED THE FORT

“We must warn the people in the fort,” said Frank. “With that gate open they are in danger.”

“To stir a step in their direction at this time,” said Jack Davis, “would be to run into sure death. Surely, of all the people who are inside there at this time, some one is on the lookout; and they will see the redskins before it is too late.”

Knowing that it would be foolhardy to attempt anything just then, Jack rode his horse into a deep ravine, followed by the others; here they dismounted, and, concealed by a dense growth of trees and underbrush, they crawled up the sides of the ravine and watched the situation with the most acute interest.

Jack had said that surely out of all the people inside the stockade at Fort Mims some one would be on the lookout. This was naturally to be expected—it was the very least that a military officer could do in the heart of a hostile country. Yet it was a thing that Major Beasley had not done. But to leave the stockade gate sprawling open and the fort unguarded was not the least of this officer’s offenses. A day or two before a couple of negroes, who had been sent out to watch some cattle at pasture, had rushed in and reported signs of Indians. A party had been sent out, under an officer, to scout about the country; but they had been very perfunctory in the performance of this grave duty, and returned saying that no Indians were in the neighborhood, and neither had they seen any signs of them.

At this report the negroes were lashed, in spite of their protestations, and things went on in their usual careless spirit.

For several hours the boys watched from the ravine. The advance of the circling savages had stopped; apparently they were waiting some sort of signal. Inside the stockade the women and military cooks were preparing the midday meal; the soldiers were lounging about, the children were romping in the shade of the walls. Another short space of time, and then the drum beat the mess call, telling the soldiers that their food was ready.

Apparently this was the signal. The Creeks arose from out the grass, from behind stumps, from out of hollows. Like magic, hundreds of them, smeared hideously with war paint, armed with scalping knife and tomahawk, with rifle and war club, bounded silently across the level space between them and the fort.

Major Beasley was the first of the defenders to see them.

“Injuns!” he cried as he darted toward the heavy gate. The swift-footed Creeks were also plunging toward this point; seeing that they were discovered, they cast silence aside and the air was filled with the dreaded war-whoop.

Major Beasley reached the gate and threw himself against it with desperate strength. But the savages were too swift; they gained the gateway and before the cumbersome bar could fall they had thrust the gate back, and the ill-fated commander fell before their tomahawks.

Soldiers and settlers both had sprung for their rifles at the first shout of Beasley. But before they could form for any sort of concentrated defense the Creeks poured through the wide open gate like the waters of an angry sea.

Seeing that there was no hope of withstanding the Indians at that point, the defenders, or what remained of them after this first terrible onslaught, fell back with the women and children behind a second line of wall. Here the gate was closed, and lining the wall with deadly rifles the whites began a gallant defense.

The leader of the settlers now took command; and no more gallant fellow than this half-breed ever lived. He kept his men to their frightful task with the most desperate resolution. So bitter was the defense of the settlers and soldiers that the Indians, a great number of them dead under the walls, slackened in their attack. With what booty they could lay hands on they fell back before the terrible rifles.

But their leader was another half-breed, Weatherford, the dreaded “Red Warrior” of the Creeks. Upon the back of a great charger, garbed in all the barbaric splendor of a savage chief, he dashed among his scattering bands. His great voice lifted like a trumpet, burning them with his scorn.

“Are the Muscogees men, or children?” he cried. “Have they the hearts of warriors, or of rabbits? You have asked to be led against the foe; he is before you. Shall your children say their fathers turned their backs upon the paleface? Or will you be able to show by the scalps upon your lodge pole that when your chief called you braves he did not lie?”

Lashed to fury by the scorn of the Red Warrior, the Creeks returned to the assault. Burning arrows were discharged, and soon the buildings behind the second defense were destroyed. The gates were broken in; the settlers now fought penned up in houses which were burning over their heads. Soon all were dead save a party which had closed itself up in a bastion at the north of the fort; these fought doggedly under the courageous direction of their captain, Dixon Bailey. But nothing could withstand the overwhelming strength of the Indians; they stormed the bastion, and in spite of the protests and commands of Weatherford, began their dreadful work of death once more.

In a frenzy of strength some of the troopers broke apart the stakes which formed the outer wall of the bastion. About a half score escaped by this means, among them being the gallant Dixon Bailey. But it was not the fate of this fine fellow to escape with his life; he was bleeding from a half dozen wounds and died a few hundred yards from the doomed fort.

Broken and breathless, the remainder of the little party ran on; a band of Creeks had noted their escape and were in swift pursuit; the whites had about given up hope when they heard a loud “Hello” far ahead.

Amazed, they saw in a fringe of woods two white boys and a friendly Indian, well mounted—and holding a number of Indian ponies by their bridles.

“This way,” shouted one of the lads, a bronzed, bold-faced fellow. “We have mounts for you all, borrowed from the Creeks. Quick now!”

And while the fight-worn men were straining their pounding hearts for just a little more speed, Jack and Frank threw up their long rifles; like whips they cracked and two bronzed warriors tumbled forward. Then Running Elk’s bow sang its song of death and a third went to join his comrades.

While the fugitives clambered upon the backs of the horses, the lads finished reloading. Again the pieces cracked and once more the great Cherokee bow twanged. Amid the death yells of the fallen braves and the ruins of Fort Mims blazing behind them, the fugitives, with Jack and Frank and Running Elk riding behind as a rear guard, dashed away with the news toward the settlements.