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<h2 id="c9">CHAPTER IX. THE DEFENSE OF THE ISLAND.</h2> When the enemy had been so scattered as to leave the path free, the small band of rangers plunged deeper into the woods and kept on their course until they reached a small 62 wooded swamp through which many small creeks ran, leaving a little island in the center, containing, perhaps, two acres of land. The tall trees stood thick about it, and no better place of defense could possibly have been selected. No sooner had they reached the island than they set to work fortifying it by piling up fallen logs into a temporary barricade, making it strongest upon the only point which could be assailed by land, as the creeks swept around it on three sides, leaving a space of smooth ground about twenty feet wide. Across this they built a strong barricade at least ten feet high, through the openings of which, they could fire upon the foe, without being themselves seen. The other parts of the island were almost impervious to assault, for not only did the deep creek guard it, but the logs had fallen all about it in inextricable confusion, making a chevaux de frise through which a corps of axmen would have found it extremely difficult to force their way. The middle of the island was cleared, leaving the path open for them to pass from one part to another, and they now waited almost eagerly for the coming of the enemy, who, as yet, did not appear. Cooney Joe took his rifle and stole out toward the clearing, and for half an hour the “scout” remained quiet, waiting in considerable anxiety for the coming of the hunter, whose danger they well knew. But he came back at a long-loping trot, his rifle at a trail, and his eyes flashing with the ardor of battle. “Git ready, boys,” he cried. “We’ve got business afore us, bet yer life.” “What now, Joe?” demanded the captain. “Who are coming?” “All that’s left of Napope’s band and thirty of Dick Garrett’s men,” replied Joe. “And—” “Thar’s an Injin,” cried one of the men. “I’ll pop him over.” “Hold on,” replied Joe. “Seems to me that chap is making signals that look white. Thar; look at that!” An Indian had appeared in plain sight and was waving a white cloth in the air. “Hello, you!” yelled Joe. “Come in, ef you want to.” <div class="pb" id="Page_63">63</div> The man obeyed and came clambering over the barricade, and at a glance they could see that he was a white man disguised. It was Tom Bantry, who had escaped from associates with whom he could no longer consort. “Look here, men,” he said. “I’m Tom Bantry. You don’t know me and mebbe you don’t want to. I’ve been one of Dick Garrett and Will Jackwood’s men—I have. Now why don’t you kill me?” “Don’t see my way to that clear,” said Joe. “Now, Tom Bantry, what d’ye want here?” “I’ve, quit ’em,” replied Tom, energetically. “I couldn’t stand it, boys, ’pon my word, I couldn’t. I feel mean as dirt ’cause I’ve been with ’em so long; but I tell you I didn’t think they was so mean till last night when they killed poor Mr. Wescott.” “What’s that you say?” cried Melton, coming forward. “Who killed him; how was he killed?” “Dick Garrett did it,” replied Tom, in a choking voice. “The ’square give him some cheek, and he had him throwed into the river. Boys, I’m a rough boatman, but I jumped in after him, and they left us alone in the dark on the river. I tried to save him, but it wan’t no use; the current took him under.” “I believe this man, for one,” said Melton. “He never would dare to come here with such a tale as that unless it was really true. What do you say, boys?” “He’s all right,” replied Joe, “but ef he ain’t, let him look out, ’cause I shoot awful close, odd times; I do, by gracious. So Dick Garrett is jined with Napope?” “That ain’t all, you know,” said Tom Bantry. “They hev sent off a messenger to the village, and if you don’t have lively times round here, then I don’t want a picayune.” “Perhaps we had better retreat.” “You can’t do it; they’ve got scouts all through the woods, and you’d hev the hull posse on your backs in twenty minnits by the clock, so don’t try that on, ’square. No, it’s goin’ to be a b’ar-fight, and you can’t find a better place than this to fight in.” “I believe the man is right,” said Melton. “I say, Folks, is your hand so bad you can’t pull a trigger?” <div class="pb" id="Page_64">64</div> “Sorry to say ’tis, Cap,” replied the man; “I can’t do nothing.” He had been hit in the hand during the fight that morning, and the cords had been so injured as to make it impossible for him to fire a rifle. “Then you may as well let this man have your rifle, Folks,” said the captain. “I take it for granted you mean to fight?” “Stranger, I’ve got to fight,” said Bantry. “Why, if Dick Garrett gets me, he’ll raise my wool, sure, and so, ef he does git into this camp, I’m goin’ out feet fust. That’s the way to talk it.” “He knows you have turned against him, then?” “Captin, he suspects it, and to suspect a man is all he wants, you know. He’ll go for me, sure.” The man who had been hurt came up at this moment and gave Bantry the rifle and ammunition. “Now, ’square, see here,” he said; “you watch me when I fire the first shot, and if it don’t seem to you that I’ve tried to hit my man, I give you leave to shoot me, that’s all. This is a good rifle, chummy—she hangs true as a die, and I can knock the black out of a buffler’s eye at twenty rods with her.” At this moment one of the sentries outside the barricade gave the signal, and all were immediately upon the alert. Melton took the charge of Bantry upon himself, and gave him a place in the middle of the barricade, and took his station beside him. The sentries came stealing in like silent specters, and placed themselves beside the rest in silence, waiting for the advance of the Indians. They had not long to wait, for a tufted head was cautiously protruded from behind a tree, and a pair of brilliant eyes looked keenly at the island. Evidently he saw something out of the way, for he stepped out in full view of the fort and advanced to within twenty feet of the barricade. “That man must not go back,” said Melton, in a whisper, touching Tom Bantry on the arm, “and no rifle must be fired. Can you fetch him?” Bantry caught up a knife and hatchet, and sprung from the barricade so suddenly that the Indian had no time to cock 65 his gun before the fiery boatman was upon him. They closed with fierce energy, a short struggle ensued, and then Tom Bantry arose, leaving the Indian dead at his feet. “Well done, Bantry,” said Melton, as the man came back his face scarcely flushed by the desperate struggle in which he had been engaged. “You will do very well without watching.” “I’ve got to fight,” replied Tom, coolly. “It won’t do for me to be caught, I tell you.” By this time the Indians and disguised boatmen began to show themselves through the woods, and the scout opened upon them at once, and they skulked to the shelter of the bushes. But the men who had come up with the desperado Garrett did not know the word fear, and only waited for the orders of their superior to advance to the assault. “They are fighting chickens, Cap; game birds, every man, now you mind what I say,” said the deserter. “They’ll fight like bulldogs, but they’d do better if Black Will was here.” The attack was not long delayed. The desperate ruffians collected as close as possible to the barricade, and then made their rush all together. They were met by men as determined and desperate as themselves, and forced back, leaving one fourth of their number dead or wounded in front of the barricade. “That’s the way Melton’s scouts do it,” cried the voice of the young captain. “Come again, my boys.” “I hear you,” screamed Garrett, “and we will come again. Now, Napope,” he added, lowering his tone, “we must divide their force. Send ten of your best men to cross the creek and attack them on the right. Send ten more to the left, and try them at the same time. The signal will be three rifle-shots from this point.” Their movements were not so well shrouded that Melton could not see the danger to be apprehended from a division of his forces, which was rendered necessary by this action on their part. But he only sent three men to each point threatened, one under the lead of Tom Bantry, who had already become quite popular, and the other under Cooney Joe. They darted rapidly across the little open space, while the others 66 loaded their rifles and pistols and calmly waited for the assault. “Beat them off this time, and the chances are they won’t want any more,” cried Melton. “Shoot a little closer to make up for the lost men, and it will be all right.” Just then they heard three rifle-shots, and a simultaneous movement was made against the island from three different points. But the foresight of Melton in sending small parties to the threatened points, removed the danger from the two parties of Indians, while his own force was not so weakened but that he could still present a stout front to the foe. The barricade rained bullets upon the advancing enemy entangled in the branches of the trees which formed the intrenchment, and crowded into the narrow space of twenty feet. No men, however hardy, could hope to live long under such a fire, and in spite of the almost superhuman exertions of Garrett, Napope and Na-she-eschuck, they fell back again, and took breath under cover of the woods. “This is awful,” said Garrett. “The curse of the devil on them, how they do fight. I’ve lost near half my men.” The small parties under Tom Bantry and Joe had succeeded in keeping their enemies at bay, and as soon as the main body retreated, half a dozen men ran to their aid, and the Indians were quickly swept away from the banks of the creek. “Good boys,” said Melton. “You could not fight better if you liked the sport. Now, who wants the doctor?” No one had been badly injured. Two or three had been scraped by passing bullets, but a little sticking-plaster soon set that right, and they were as ready for a fight as ever. Garrett was furious, and while he was blaming heaven and earth at the ill success of his attack, a man whose face was flushed by a hard ride dashed through the swamp, and drew up before them. “Now then, what is all this?” he cried. “I know you, Dick Garrett. You delight in a row so much that you are wasting my men in attacking a perfect fort.” “But you don’t know who is in it, Will Jackwood,” replied Garrett. “Two men you hate—Cooney Joe and Captain Melton.” <div class="pb" id="Page_67">67</div> “Ha, say you so? Then out of that they must come, by the Eternal! Keep back the men, for Black-Hawk will be here in half an hour with four hundred braves, and then we will overwhelm them. Captain Melton, eh? I always did detest that boy, Dick.” “I don’t love him,” said Dick. “What is this I hear about Sam Wescott?” “Gone under, Will. I had to do it, for he recognized me in my disguise, and some one had to go.” “I don’t care so much about that, if you did not compromise me. The man hated me, and while he lived there was no hope of winning the girl by fair means, and I always liked that way best. Where is the girl?” “I left her on the edge of the swamp, with three of my best men.” “All right; where is Tom Bantry? I want to send him somewhere.” “I don’t know what to think about him, Will, ’pon my word. When we slung Wescott overboard the fool jumped after him, and I left them both in the river. Tom got out, some way, and came to Napope’s camp, but after their fight we could not find hide nor hair of him.” “You’ve lost the best man in the party, then, by all odds. Tom was the only one who had a spark of humanity in his composition. You are sure these men you left with the girl are all right?” “Davis, Bradshaw and Herrick.” “They’ll do; as true panthers as ever lapped blood. How many has Melton in his fort?” “He had twenty.” “Then he’s got twenty now,” said Jackwood. “You have not hurt many of them in that place, for the captain knows how to choose a position. Send one of the Indians to Black-Hawk, and tell him to make haste, as we must get this little job off our hands.” “If you find it a little job, then there are no snakes in the South Red,” said Garrett, who was incensed at the quiet way in which his defeat was laughed down. “They licked Napope alone, and now they’ve licked our combined forces, and it is no two to one they don’t give our friend Black-Hawk 68 all he can do. You ought to know Melton’s scouts by this time.” Jackwood nodded, and a fierce look came into his face: “If I had been here, friend Garrett, this would never have happened. If I had assailed these works, I would have taken them.” “Then assail them now. You’ve got the men—try it.” “Dick—Dick! How lucky it is that all men are not swayed by impulse. You offer me a broken and discouraged force to perform the task you failed to achieve when they were in prime order. It won’t do, Richard; too transparent altogether. Get the men together, see to the wounded and get the survivors ready for a new attack. I will lead it in person.” As he spoke, the approach of dusky scouts heralded the coming of Black-Hawk, and directly after the old chief, surrounded by his principal advisers and warriors, strode into the camp. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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