Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire.  A glancing ball had struck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound.  It was now being dressed by Col.  Zane’s wife, whose skilled fingers were already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries received by the defenders.  In all that horrible din of battle, the shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel’s brave wife had never faltered.  She was here and there; binding the wounds, helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear up under the awful strain.

Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the ladder almost without touching it.  Blood was running down his bare arm and dripping from the ends of his fingers.

“Zane, Martin has been shot,” he said hoarsely.  “The same Indian who shot away these fingers did it.  The bullets seem to come from some elevation.  Send some scout up there and find out where that damned Indian is hiding.”

“Martin shot?  God, his poor wife!  Is he dead?” said Silas.

“Not yet.  Bennet is bringing him down.  Here, I want this hand tied up, so that my gun won’t be so slippery.”

Wetzel was seen stalking from one porthole to another.  His fearful yell sounded above all the others.  He seemed to bear a charmed life, for not a bullet had so much as scratched him.  Silas communicated to him what Sullivan had said.  The hunter mounted the ladder and went up on the roof.  Soon he reappeared, descended into the room and ran into the west end of the block-house.  He kneeled before a porthole through which he pushed the long black barrel of his rifle.  Silas and Sullivan followed him and looked in the direction indicated by his weapon.  It pointed toward the bushy top of a tall poplar tree which stood on the hill west of the Fort.  Presently a little cloud of white smoke issued from the leafy branches, and it was no sooner seen than Wetzel’s rifle was discharged.  There was a great commotion among the leaves, the branches swayed and thrashed, and then a dark body plunged downward to strike on the rocky slope of the bluff and roll swiftly out of sight.  The hunter’s unnatural yell pealed out.

“Great God!  The man’s crazy,” cried Sullivan, staring at Wetzel’s demon-like face.

“No, no.  It’s his way,” answered Silas.