Silas Zane heard the increasing clamor outside and knew that hundreds of Indians were being drawn to the spot. Something must be done at once. He looked around and his eyes fell on a pile of white oak logs that had been hauled inside the Fort. They had been placed there by Col. Zane, with wise forethought. Silas grabbed Clarke and pulled him toward the pile of logs, at the same time communicating his plan. Together they carried a log to the fence and dropped it in front of the hole. Wetzel immediately stepped on it and took a vicious swing at an Indian who was trying to poke his rifle sideways through the hole. This Indian had discharged his weapon twice. While Wetzel held the Indians at bay, Silas and Clarke piled the logs one upon another, until the hole was closed. This effectually fortified and barricaded the weak place in the stockade fence. The settlers in the bastions were now pouring such a hot fire into the ranks of the savages that they were compelled to retreat out of range.
While Wetzel washed the blood from his arms and his shoulders Silas and Alfred hurried back to where Bennet had fallen. They expected to find him dead, and were overjoyed to see the big settler calmly sitting by the brook binding up a wound in his shoulder.
“It’s nothin’ much. Jest a scratch, but it tumbled me over,” he said. “I was comin’ to help you. That was the wust Injun scrap I ever saw. Why didn’t you keep on lettin’ ’em come in? The red varmints would’a kept on comin’ and Wetzel was good fer the whole tribe. All you’d had to do was to drag the dead Injuns aside and give him elbow room.”
Wetzel joined them at this moment, and they hurried back to the blockhouse. The firing had ceased on the bluff. They met Sullivan at the steps of the Fort. He was evidently coming in search of them.
“Zane, the Indians and the Britishers are getting ready for more determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made,” said Sullivan.
“How so?” asked Silas.
“They have got hammers from the blacksmith’s shop, and they boarded my boat and found a keg of nails. Now they are making a number of ladders. If they make a rush all at once and place ladders against the fence we’ll have the Fort full of Indians in ten minutes. They can’t stand in the face of a cannon charge. We must use the cannon.”
“Clarke, go into Capt. Boggs’s cabin and fetch out two kegs of powder,” said Silas.
The young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while Silas and the others ascended the stairs.
“The firing seems to be all on the south side,” said Silas, “and is not so heavy as it was.”
“Yes, as I said, the Indians on the river front are busy with their new plans,” answered Sullivan.
“Why does not Clarke return?” said Silas, after waiting a few moments at the door of the long room. “We have no time to lose. I want to divide one keg of that powder among the men.”
Clarke appeared at the moment. He was breathing heavily as though he had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powerful emotion. His face was gray.
“I could not find any powder!” he exclaimed. “I searched every nook and corner in Capt. Boggs’s house. There is no powder there.”
A brief silence ensued. Everyone in the blockhouse heard the young man’s voice. No one moved. They all seemed waiting for someone to speak. Finally Silas Zane burst out:
“Not find it? You surely could not have looked well. Capt. Boggs himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. I will go and find it myself.”
Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb feeling round his heart. He knew what was coming. He had been in the Captain’s house and had seen those kegs of powder. He knew exactly where they had been. Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor at any other place in the storeroom. While he sat there waiting for the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end of the room to the other. At last they found what they were seeking. A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing with a bellows. It was Betty. Her face was pale and weary, her hair disheveled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. Lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet mold on a block of wood. Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision. Too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball. The little missile had to be just so for those soft metal, smoothbore rifles. Then Lydia dipped the mold in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on the floor. A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. She rubbed it with a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. For nearly forty hours, without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had been at their post.
Silas Zane came running into the room. His face was ghastly, even his lips were white and drawn.
“Sullivan, in God’s name, what can we do? The powder is gone!” he cried in a strident voice.
“Gone?” repeated several voices.
“Gone?” echoed Sullivan. “Where?”
“God knows. I found where the kegs stood a few days ago. There were marks in the
