Col.  Zane had just called together his men for a conference.  He suspected some cunning deviltry on part of the Indians.

“Sam, take what stuff to eat you can lay your hands on and go up to the loft.  Keep a sharp lookout and report anything to Jonathan or me,” said the Colonel.

All afternoon Jonathan Zane had loaded and fired his rifles in sullen and dogged determination.  He had burst one rifle and disabled another.  The other men were fine marksmen, but it was undoubtedly Jonathan’s unerring aim that made the house so unapproachable.  He used an extremely heavy, large bore rifle.  In the hands of a man strong enough to stand its fierce recoil it was a veritable cannon.  The Indians had soon learned to respect the range of that rifle, and they gave the cabin a wide berth.

But now that darkness had enveloped the valley the advantage lay with the savages.  Col.  Zane glanced apprehensively at the blackened face of his brother.

“Do you think the Fort can hold out?” he asked in a husky voice.  He was a bold man, but he thought now of his wife and children.

“I don’t know,” answered Jonathan.  “I saw that big Shawnee chief today.  His name is Fire.  He is well named.  He is a fiend.  Girty has a picked band.”

“The Fort has held out surprisingly well against such combined and fierce attacks.  The Indians are desperate.  You can easily see that in the way in which they almost threw their lives away.  The green square is covered with dead Indians.”

“If help does not come in twenty-four hours not one man will escape alive.  Even Wetzel could not break through that line of Indians.  But if we can hold the Indians off a day longer they will get tired and discouraged.  Girty will not be able to hold them much longer.  The British don’t count.  It’s not their kind of war.  They can’t shoot, and so far as I can see they haven’t done much damage.”

“To your posts, men, and every man think of the women and children in the block-house.”

For a long time, which seemed hours to the waiting and watching settlers, not a sound could be heard, nor any sign of the enemy seen.  Thin clouds had again drifted over the moon, allowing only a pale, wan light to shine down on the valley.  Time dragged on and the clouds grew thicker and denser until the moon and the stars were totally obscured.  Still no sign or sound of the savages.

“What was that?” suddenly whispered Col.  Zane.

“It was a low whistle from Sam.  We’d better go up,” said Jonathan.

They went up the stairs to the second floor from which they ascended to the loft by means of a ladder.  The loft was as black as pitch.  In that Egyptian darkness it was no use to look for anything, so they crawled on their hands and knees over the piles of hides and leather which lay on the floor.  When they reached the small window they made out the form of the negro.

“What is it, Sam?” whispered Jonathan.