"Hello! Who's this? Why, Harry!" exclaimed Silas, grasping the boy and drawing him into
the room. Once in the light Silas saw that the lad was so weak he could hardly stand.
He was covered with blood. It dripped from a bandage wound tightly about his arm; it
oozed through a hole in his hunting shirt, and it flowed from a wound over his temple.
The shadow of death was already stealing over the pallid face, but from the grey eyes
shone an indomitable spirit, a spirit which nothing but death could quench.
"Quick!" the lad panted. "Send men to the south wall. The redskins are breakin' in where
the water from the spring runs under the fence."
"Where are Metzar and the other men?"
"Dead! Killed last night. I've been there alone all night. I kept on shootin'. Then I gets
plugged here under the chin. Knowin' it's all up with me I deserted my post when I heard
the Injuns choppin' on the fence where it was on fire last night. But I only--run--because-
-they're gettin' in."
"Wetzel, Bennet, Clarke!" yelled Silas, as he laid the boy on the bench.
Almost as Silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him. Clarke and the other
men were almost as prompt.
"Wetzel, run to the south wall. The Indians are cutting a hole through the fence."
Wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a flash.
"Sullivan, you handle the men here. Bessie, do what you can for this brave lad. Come,
Bennet, Clarke, we must follow Wetzel," commanded Silas.
Mrs. Zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad. She washed away the blood from the
wound over his temple. She saw that a bullet had glanced on the bone and that the
wound was not deep or dangerous. She unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled
the flaps apart. There on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the lung, was a
horrible gaping wound. A murderous British slug had passed through the lad. From the
hole at every heart-beat poured the dark, crimson life-tide. Mrs. Zane turned her white
face away for a second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly over the
wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad's breast.
"Don't waste time on me. It's all over," he whispered. "Will you call Betty here a minute?"
Betty came, white-faced and horror-stricken. For forty hours she had been living in a
maze of terror. Her movements had almost become mechanical. She had almost
ceased to hear and feel. But the light in the eyes of this dying boy brought her back to
the horrible reality of the present.
"Oh, Harry! Harry! Harry!" was all Betty could whisper.