They had not long to wait.  Before noon the well-known whoop came from the wooded shore of the river, and it was soon followed by the appearance of hundreds of Indians.  The river, which was low, at once became a scene of great animation.  From a placid, smoothly flowing stream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulent torrent.  The mounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into the water; the unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons and ammunition upon them; then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelled their way across; other Indians swam, holding the bridles of the pack-horses.  A detachment of British soldiers followed the Indians.  In an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff not three hundred yards from the Fort.  They were in no hurry to begin the attack.  Especially did the Indians seem to enjoy the lull before the storm, and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of the garrison, or stood in groups watching the Fort, they were seen in all their hideous war-paint and formidable battle-array.  They were exultant.  Their plumes and eagle feathers waved proudly in the morning breeze.  Now and then the long, peculiarly broken yell of the Shawnees rang out clear and strong.  The soldiers were drawn off to one side and well out of range of the settlers’ guns.  Their red coats and flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band of men in the block-house.

“Ho, the Fort!”

It was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted on a black horse.

“Well, Girty, what is it?” shouted Silas Zane.

“We demand unconditional surrender,” was the answer.

“You will never get it,” replied Silas.

“Take more time to think it over.  You see we have a force here large enough to take the Fort in an hour.”

“That remains to be seen,” shouted some one through porthole.

An hour passed.  The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on the grass and walked to and fro on the bluff.  At intervals a taunting Indian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness came floating on the air.  When the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance of the waiting Indians.  One was clad in buckskin, another in the uniform of a British officer, and the third was an Indian chief whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and legging.

“Will you surrender?” came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the renegade.

“Never!  Go back to your squaws!” yelled Sullivan.

“I am Capt.  Pratt of the Queen’s Rangers.  If you surrender I will give you the best protection King George affords,” shouted the officer.

“To hell with lying George!  Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton and tell him the whole British army could not make us surrender,” roared Hugh Bennet.

“If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned.  Your men will be massacred and your women given to the Indians,” said Girty.