The window, doubtless intended merely for letting in air, was very small, but Henry had a fine view of a wide open space, evidently the central court of the village.  It was grassy and shady, with large oak and beech trees.  About fifteen yards from the corncrib burned a fire, meant for light rather than heat, as the night was warm.  Around it were gathered about fifty men, of whom six or seven were white, although they were tanned by exposure almost to the darkness of Indians.

Henry knew a number of them well.  Upon a slightly raised seat sat Timmendiquas, the famous White Lightning of the Wyandots.  He wore only the waist cloth, and the great muscles of his chest and arms were revealed by the firelight.  His head was thrown back as if in defiance, and above it rose a single red feather twined in the scalp lock.  Just beyond Timmendiquas sat Moluntha, the Shawnee; Captain Pipe and Captain White Eyes, the Delawares; Yellow Panther, the Miami, and Red Eagle, the Shawnee.  Beyond them were Simon Girty, Braxton Wyatt, Moses Blackstaffe and the other renegades.  There was also a Mohawk chief at the head of a small detachment sent by Thayendanegea.  All the chiefs were in war paint tattooed to the last note of Indian art.

Henry knew from the number of chiefs present and the gravity of their faces that this was a council of great importance.  He heard at first only the rumble of their voices, but when he had become used to the place, and had listened attentively he was able to discern the words.  Timmendiquas, true to his brave and fierce nature, was urging the allied chiefs to stay and fight Clark for Chillicothe.  In the East before the battle on the Chemung, he had been in a sense a visitor, and he had deferred to the great Iroquois, Thayendanegea, but here he was first, the natural leader, and he spoke with impassioned fervor.  As Henry looked he rose, and swinging a great tomahawk to give emphasis to his words, he said: 

“The one who retreats does not find favor with Manitou.  It is he who stays and fights.  It is true that we were defeated in the battle across from Tuentahahewaghta (the site of Cincinnati), but with great warriors a defeat is merely the beginning of the way that leads to victory in the end.  This is the greatest town of our race in all the valley of Ohezuhyeandawa (the Ohio), and shall we give it up, merely because Clark comes against it with a thousand men?  Bowman came last year, but you beat him off and killed many of his men.  The soldiers of the king have failed us as we feared.  The promises of de Peyster and Caldwell have not been kept, but we can win without them!”

He paused and swung the great war tomahawk.  The firelight tinted red the glittering blade, and it made a circle of light as he whirled it about his head.  A murmur ran around the circle, and swelled into a chorus of approval.  These were the words that appealed to the hearts of the warlike tribes, but Simon Girty, crafty, politic and far-seeing, arose.

“Your words are those of a brave man and a great leader, Timmendiquas,” he said, speaking in Shawnee, “but there are many things that the chiefs must consider.  When the white men are slain, others come from the East to take their places; when our warriors fall their lodges stay empty and we are always fewer than before.  You were across the mountains, Timmendiquas, with the chief of the Iroquois, Thayendanegea, and so was my friend who sits here by my side.  The Iroquois fought there on the Chemung River, and brave though they were, they could not stand against the Yengees and their cannon.  They were scattered and their country was destroyed.  It would have been better had they fallen back, fighting wherever they could lay a good ambush.

“Now Kentucky comes against us in great force.  It is not such an army as that which Bowman led.  They are all trained, even as our own, to the forest and its ways.  This army, as it marches, looks before and behind, and to right and to left.  It will not stick its head in a trap, and when its cannon thunder against your Chillicothe, smashing down your houses and your lodges, what will you do?  Clark, who leads the men from Kentucky, has beaten our allies, the British, at Vincennes and Kaskaskia.  Hamilton, the governor at Detroit before de Peyster, was captured by him, and the Yengees held him a prisoner in Virginia.  This Clark is cunning like the fox, and has teeth like the wolf.  He is the winner of victories, and the men from Kentucky are ready to fight around him to the last.”

Another murmur came from the circle and it also indicated approval of Girty’s words.  Always greatly influenced by oratory, the opinion of the chiefs now swung to the latest speaker.  Timmendiquas flashed a look of scorn at Girty and at some of the chiefs near him.

“I know that Girty thinks much and is wise,” he said.  “He is faithful to us, too, because he dare not go back to his own white people, who would tear him to pieces.”

Timmendiquas paused a moment for his taunt to take effect, and looked directly at the renegade.  Girty winced, but he had great self-control, and he replied calmly: 

“What you say is true, Timmendiquas, and no one knows it better than I. The whites would surely tear me in pieces if they could catch me, because my deeds in behalf of the Indians, whom I have chosen to be my brethren, are known to all men.”

Girty had replied well, and the older and more cautious chiefs gave him another murmur of approval.  Timmendiquas flashed him a second glance of contempt and hate, but the renegade endured it firmly.

“What, then, do you say for us to do, Girty?” asked the Wyandot chief.

“As the enemy comes near Chillicothe fall back to Piqua.  It is only twelve miles away, yet not all the warriors of Piqua are here ready to help us.  But they will wait for us if we come to them, and then we shall be in stronger force to fight Clark.  And Piqua is better suited to defense than Chillicothe.  The enemy cannot come upon the town without receiving from us a hidden fire.”

Girty spoke on, and to the listening youth he seemed to speak plausibly.  Certainly many of the chiefs thought so, as more than once they nodded and murmured their approval.  Timmendiquas replied, and several of the younger chiefs supported him, but Henry believed that the burden of opinion was shifting the other way.  The tribes were probably shaken by the defeat at the mouth of the Licking, and the name of Clark was dreaded most of all.

Indians love to talk, and the debate went on for a long time, but at last it was decided, much against the will of Timmendiquas, that if they could not catch Clark in an ambush they would abandon Chillicothe and retreat toward Piqua.  The decisive argument was the fact that they could gather at Piqua a much larger force than at Chillicothe.  The advance of Clark had been more rapid than was expected.  They would not only have all the Piqua men with them, but many more warriors from distant villages who had not yet arrived.

The fire was now permitted to die down, the crowd broke up and the chiefs walked away to their lodgings.  Henry left the little place from which he had been peeping, drew himself from the corn and prepared to open the door.  Before he had pulled it back more than an inch he stopped and remained perfectly still.  Two warriors were standing outside within three feet of him.  They were Miamis, and they were talking in low tones which he could not understand.  He waited patiently for them to pass on, but presently one of them glanced at the door.  He may have been the owner of the crib, and he noticed that the door was shut or nearly shut, when it had been left open.  He stepped forward and gave it a push, sending it against the youth who stood on the other side.

The Miami uttered an exclamation, but Henry acted promptly.  He did not wish to fire a shot and bring hundreds of warriors down upon himself and his friends, but he sprang out of the door with such violence that he struck the first Miami with his shoulder and knocked him senseless.  The second warrior, startled by this terrifying apparition, was about to utter a cry of alarm, but Henry seized him by the throat with both hands, compressed it and threw him from him as far as he could.  Then he sprang among the vines, where he was joined by his comrades, and, bending low, they rushed for the corn field and its protection.

The second Miami was the first to recover.  He sprang to his feet and opened his mouth to let forth the war cry.  It did not come.  Instead an acute pain shot along his throat.  He did not know how powerful were the hands that had constricted him there.  Nevertheless he persisted and at the fourth trial the war cry came, sending its signal of alarm all through the village.  Warriors poured out of the dark, and led by the Miamis they dashed through the garden in eager pursuit.

The five were already in the field, running down among the corn rows.  Over them waved the highest blades of the corn, still rustling dryly in the wind.

“We are as good runners ez they are,” said Shif’less Sol.  “An’ they can’t see us here in the corn, but ain’t that a pack o’ them on our heels.  Listen to that yelp.”

The war cry came from hundreds of throats, and behind them they heard the patter of many feet on the soft earth of the field, but they were not in despair.  Not far beyond lay the woods, and they had full faith that they would reach their cover in time.  The rows of corn guided them in a perfectly straight line, and the number of their pursuers were of no avail.  They reached the woods in a few minutes, and, although the warriors then caught dim glimpses of them, and fired a few shots, no bullets struck near, and they were soon hidden among the trees and thickets.  But they were too wise to stop merely because they were out of sight.  They continued at good speed for a long time on the return journey to Clark.

Henry’s comrades asked him no questions, knowing that when they stopped he would tell them everything, unasked.  But they saw that he was in an excellent humor, and so they inferred that he brought valuable information from Chillicothe.

“I call it luck,” said Shif’less Sol, “that when you have to run for your life you can at the same time run the way you want to go.”

“Yes, it’s our lucky night,” said Henry.

Stopping occasionally to listen for pursuit, they ran about four hours, and then took a long rest by the side of a cool little brook from which they drank deeply.  Then Henry told what he had heard.

“It’s not their intention to fight at Chillicothe,” he said.  “Timmendiquas, of course, wanted to make a stand, but Girty and the older chiefs prevented him and decided on Piqua.  It’s likely, I think, that the authority of White Lightning has been weakened by their defeat at the mouth of the Licking.”

Then he related every word that he had been able to catch.

“This is mighty important,” said Paul, “and Colonel Clark will surely be glad to hear your news.”

After a rest of one hour they pushed on at great speed and they did not stop the next day until they saw Colonel Clark’s vanguard.  Clark himself was at the front and with him were Boone, Kenton and Thomas.  The face of the Colonel became eager when he saw the five emerge from the undergrowth.

“Anything to tell?” he asked briefly.

When Henry related what he had heard from the window of the corncrib, the Colonel uttered short but earnest words of thanks, and put his hand upon the lad’s shoulder.

“Once more we are in great debt to you, young sir,” he said.  “You brought our forces together at the Licking, and now you guide our main campaign.  This news that the savages will not defend Chillicothe will give our men great encouragement.  Already they will see the enemy fleeing before them.”

Colonel Clark was a good prophet.  The men cheered when they heard that the Indian force was likely to abandon Chillicothe and they were anxious to press forward at increased speed, but the leader would not permit, nor would he allow them to disarrange their marching order in the slightest.  He had never been defeated by the Indians, because he had never given them a chance to trap and surprise him, and he did not mean to do so now.

“Plenty of time, boys ­plenty of time,” he said, soothingly.  “Before we finish this campaign you’ll get all the fighting you want.  Don’t forget that.”

That night, which was to be the last before reaching Chillicothe, he doubled the guard.  Except the five, who had fully earned the right to sleep, the very best of the scouts and sharpshooters were on watch.  Skirmishers were thrown far out among the bushes, and no matter how dark the night might be, no considerable Indian force could ever get near enough for surprise.  Boone, Kenton, Thomas and others heard signals, the hoots of owls and the howls of wolves, but they continued their watch undisturbed.  So long as a thousand good men were there in the wilderness in a heavy square, bristling with rifles and artillery, they did not care how many signals the savages made to one another.

Morning came, bright and hot.  It was the sixth of August, the month when the great heats that sometimes hang over the Ohio River Valley usually reach their uttermost.

This promised to be such a day.  After the bright dawn the atmosphere became thick and heavy.  Sweat stood on every face.  Exertion was an effort.  Yet the men felt no abatement of zeal.  In three or four hours more, they would reach Chillicothe unless the enemy gave battle first.  Nevertheless little was said.  The veteran frontiersmen knew the valor of their enemy, and his wonderful skill as a forest fighter.  This was no festival to which they were going.  Many of them would never return to Kentucky.

They marched about three miles.  It was noon now, and the sun from its vantage point in the center of the heavens poured down a flood of burning rays upon them.  Colonel Clark, with his usual patience, made the men halt for a few minutes and take food.  Their formation had never been broken for a moment.  No matter from what side the attack came the whole army could face it inside of two minutes.

The five with Boone, Kenton and Thomas were just ahead of the vanguard, and Colonel Clark who was now on horseback rode up to them.

“How far would you say it is to Chillicothe?” he asked Henry.

“We should be there in an hour.”

Colonel Clark looked at his watch.

“One o’clock in the afternoon,” he said.  “That will give us plenty of time for a battle, if they choose to offer it to us, but it looks as if we would receive no such offer.  All that you have said, young sir, is coming to pass.”

They were following the broad trail left by the Indian army on its retreat, but not a single warrior appeared to oppose them.  There were no sounds in the woods save those made by themselves.  No bark of dog or signal of savage came from the village which was now just beyond a thin veil of forest.

Colonel Clark’s iron self-control yielded a little.  He allowed the men to hasten somewhat, and they came all at once into the corn field which Henry and his friends had entered.  They saw, beyond, the walls and roofs of Chillicothe.  Colonel Clark instantly ordered a halt.  A field of waving corn could hold a thousand hidden warriors, but Boone, Henry and the others were already in the corn and announced that nobody was there.  Then the army with a great shout advanced on the run, the wheels of the cannon grinding down the corn.

In five minutes they were at Chillicothe, and then they saw flames leaping from the highest houses.  The town was on fire and all its people had fled.  The broad trail, littered with fragments, showed that they had gone towards Piqua.  But the army, still kept in battle order, did not follow yet.  It watched the burning of Chillicothe and helped it along.  The soldiers, with the cannon in the center, were drawn up just on the outside of the town, and, under order of the officers, many of them seized torches and lighted tepee and wigwam.  The dry corn in the fields and everything else that would burn was set on fire.  What would not burn was trampled to a pulp beneath the feet of men and horses.

Meanwhile the flames spread to every part of the village, united and fused into one vast conflagration.  The sight thrilled and awed even Henry, Paul, and the others who had seen similar things in the Iroquois country.  But there were not many in that army of white men who felt pity.  This was Chillicothe, the greatest of the Western Indian towns.  Some of them had been held prisoners there.  Others had seen their friends tortured to death at this very place.  The wives and children of many had been taken away to Chillicothe and no one had ever seen or heard of them again.  Here the great Indian forays started and the very name of Chillicothe was hateful to the white men who had come from beyond the Ohio to destroy it and the warriors who lived there.  They were glad to see it burning.  They rejoiced when wigwams and Council House crashed down in blazing timbers.  It pleased them to see the corn and beans and all the Indian stores destroyed, because then the warriors must hunt in the forest for food, and would have no time to hunt in the Kentucky woods for white scalps.

The five stayed on the side of the town somewhat away from the conflagration.  The heat was tremendous.  It was a big town and the flames rose in an enormous red tower waving under the wind, and roaring as they ate into fresh food.  Light tepees were licked up in an instant.  Sparks flew in myriads and red coals were carried by the wind.  Orchards and fields were swept away with the rest by the fiery blast.  A great pall of ashes began to settle over the country surrounding the town.

“I’ve never seen anything before on the same scale,” said Paul, “and it will certainly be a terrible blow to the Indians.”

“But it will not break either their spirit or their power,” said Henry.  “To do that we’ve got to beat them in battle, and they’ll be waiting for us at Piqua.”

The fire burned all the afternoon, but when the twilight came the town was wholly consumed.  Not a house or tepee was left standing.  Over a wide area there was nothing but a mass of burning coals, which glowed and cast a bright light against the coming dark.  Clouds of smoke gathered, but the wind blew them off to the eastward and the site of Chillicothe was yet almost as light as day.  On the outward edges of this mass of coals the men cooked their suppers.

The night advanced.  Again it was very hot and close, with but little wind stirring.  All about them it was still as light as day.  For more than a mile the embers, yet red and glowing, lay, and in the orchards tree trunks smoldered casting out alternate flame and smoke.  Save for those melancholy ruins everything was swept bare.  At the edge of the woods an Indian dog poked his nose at the sky and howled dismally.  It affected the nerves of Henry and Paul, who walked across the corn fields and chased him away with stones.

“I’m sorry,” said Paul, looking back at the wide range of ruin, “that these things have to be done, even in war.”

“So am I, Paul,” said Henry, “but think how many bands have gone forth from this place to do destruction upon our people.  We have to fight such a foe with the weapons that we can use.”

They did not stay long at the edge of the woods, knowing that Indian sharpshooters might be lurking there, but went back to their friends and the army.  The men having eaten amply and having looked upon the destruction of Chillicothe were in joyous mood, but their leader did not permit them to relax caution a particle.  Too often the borderers, thinking victory won, permitted themselves to fall into disorder, when their victory was turned into defeat by the shrewd foe.  Now the men spread their blankets far enough away from the woods to be safe from sharpshooters hidden there.  The guard was made of unusual strength, and gunners were always at the cannon in case of a night attack.

The five were not on duty that night, in view of what they had done already, and they spread their blankets near the edge of the corn field, across which they had run at such good speed.  The coals still glowed.  Far off they heard the howling of wolves.

“Is there any danger of a night attack?” asked Paul.

“I don’t think so,” replied Henry.  “Of course the Indians have spies in the woods and they will report that it is impossible to surprise us.”

It was a long time before Henry could go to sleep.  The great events through which he had been crowded upon his mind.  He had seen the Iroquois win and then he had seen them destroyed.  The western tribes had won victories too and now a great commander was striking at their very heart.  Their capital lay in ruins, and, unless Timmendiquas could defeat the white men in battle, when they marched on Piqua, then the western tribes also would receive a blow from which they could never recover.  Despite himself, he was sorry for Timmendiquas.  Nevertheless he was loyal in every fiber to his own people.

The howling of the wolves came nearer.  They would find little for their teeth among these ruins, but they knew somehow that destruction had been done, and instinct called them to the place.  It was an unpleasant sound and it made Henry shiver a little.  It made him think of what was to come for the Indians.  Even savages, in the fierce winters of the North, would suffer for lost Chillicothe.  Wooden houses and lodges could not be replaced in a day.  While the great beds of coals were still glowing he fell asleep, but he was up with the others at dawn.

It was one of the most somber days that Henry had ever seen.  The heat, close, heavy and thick, like a mist, endured, but the sun did not shine.  The whole circle of the sky was covered with gray clouds.  Everything was sullen and ugly.  Some timbers in the vast ruin of Chillicothe yet burned and showed red edges, but it would be impossible to conceive of a more desolate heap.  Piles of ashes and dead coals were everywhere.  The fires that were soon lighted served the double purpose of cooking and of making cheer.  But while they ate, the skies grew perceptibly darker.  No ray of the sun broke anywhere through the steel-colored atmosphere.

Colonel Clark became anxious.  He had intended to start early for Piqua, but storms in the woods must be reckoned with, as one reckons with an enemy.  He delayed and sent forward a scouting party of fifteen men under Boone, who, of course, included the five in the fifteen.  Boone, owing to his captivity among the Indians, knew something about the country, and he led them straight toward Piqua.  As Piqua and Chillicothe, two large Indian towns, were only twelve miles apart, there was an Indian road or broad trail between them, and they followed it for some distance.

The road showed the haste with which the inhabitants of Chillicothe had fled.  Here and there were feathers which had fallen from the scalp locks of the men or the braids of the women.  Now they came to a gourd, or a rude iron skillet bought at a British post.

After four or five miles Boone deemed it wiser to turn into the thick woods.  The Indians with such a formidable force only twelve miles away would certainly have out sentries and skirmishers, and his cautious movement was just in time, as less than three hundred yards further on they were fired upon from the bushes.  They replied with a few shots, but it was not Boone’s intention to precipitate a real skirmish.  He merely wished to know if the Indians were on guard, and, in a few minutes, he drew off his men and retired.

They were followed by derisive yells which said plainly enough that, in the opinion of the Indians, they were afraid.  Some of the younger men wanted to go back, but Boone remained firm in purpose and tranquil in mind.

“Let ’em yell at us all they want to,” he said in his peculiarly gentle voice.  “We can stand it, and we’ll see how they can stand the battle to-day or to-morrow when the army comes up.”

They were back at the camp about two hours after noon, and reported that the Indians had sentinels and skirmishers on the way to Piqua.  But Clark thought they could be brushed aside, and as the clouds had lightened somewhat, they started at four o’clock.  Good humor was restored at once to the men.  They were moving now and in a few hours they might bring the campaign to a head, if the Indians only stood.  Some believed that they would not stand even at Piqua.

The order of march that had been preserved all the way from the mouth of the Licking remained unbroken.  Colonel Clark led, Colonel Logan commanded the rear guard, the soldiers were in four lines, ready to wheel in any direction, and the cannon were in the center.  They followed the Indian road, but ahead of all were Henry and his comrades, always searching the woods for a sight of some flitting Indian figure.  Henry did not believe there would be any skirmishes before they reached Piqua, but he was not among those who did not think the Indians would make a stand there.  He knew Timmendiquas too well.  The Wyandot leader had yielded, when the majority of the chiefs favored Piqua instead of Chillicothe, but now he would certainly hold them to the agreement.  The trail led on unceasingly, but the brightening of the skies was deceptive.  The clouds soon closed in again, heavier and blacker than ever.  Although it was only mid-afternoon it became almost as dark as night.  Then the lightning began to play in swift flashes, so bright that the men were dazzled, and the thunder cracked and roared in tremendous volume.

“If I live through the campaign,” said Paul, “I shall certainly remember it by this storm, if by nothing else.”

The thunder was so great that he was compelled fairly to shriek out his words.  Save when the lightning flashed he could see only the head of the army.  Presently both thunder and lightning ceased, the wind set up a vast moaning and then the rain came.  Colonel Clark and his officers were already at work, instructing the men to put up as many tents as possible, and, under any circumstances to keep their arms and powder dry.  Here again discipline and experience told, as the orders were obeyed to the last detail.

The five sheltered themselves as well as they could under the trees and they felt that Paul’s words about the storm were true.  Certainly they could never forget it.  The bottom had dropped out of the clouds, and all the rain, stowed for months, was pouring down in a few hours.  They soon abandoned any attempt to protect themselves, and devoted all their care to their ammunition.

For more than two hours the rain fell in seemingly solid sheets.  Then it ceased abruptly, and the late afternoon sun broke out, tingeing the forest with gold.  Yet every bush and tree still ran water.  Pools and often little lakes stood in the valleys.  The earth was soaked deep.  The precious ammunition and most of the stores were dry, but every man whether in a tent or not was wet to the skin.

It was obvious that they could not go on and attack Piqua at once, as they would arrive far in the night, and the most skilled of the borderers were ordered to try their cunning at lighting fires.  Patience and persistence had their reward.  The bark was stripped from fallen trees, and dry splinters were cut from it.  When these were lighted with flint and steel the problem was solved.  Heat triumphed over wet, and soon twenty glorious fires were blazing in the forest.  The men were allowed to dry their clothes in relays, each relay baring itself and holding its clothes before the fire until the last touch of damp was gone.

All the time a vigilant watch was kept in the woods.  Indians might attack when their enemy was depressed by storm and wet, but nothing to disturb the peace of the drying army occurred.  Wolves howled again far away but they were still prowling among the ruins of Chillicothe, seeking unburned portions of venison or other meat.  After the storm the close oppressive heat disappeared.  A fresh and cool wind blew.  Out came the moon and stars and they shone in a silky blue.  The leaves and grass began to dry.  The five lay down within range of the fires.  Shif’less Sol made himself very comfortable on his blanket.

“I don’t want anybody to bother me now,” he said, “‘cause I’m goin’ to sleep all through the night.  No Injuns will be roun’ here disturbin’ me, an’ I don’t want no white man to try it either.”

The shiftless one knew what he was talking about, as there was no alarm in the night and early the next morning the army began its march again.  But Henry was sure there would be a fierce fight at Piqua.

They still followed the Indian road, and now went a little faster, although never breaking their old formation for a single instant.  Yet every heart throbbed.  They would soon be at Piqua, face to face with the allied forces led by their best chiefs.  It was likely that their fire would burst from their undergrowth at any moment.  But the scouts still reported nothing.  Most of the morning was gone and they came to a broad but shallow stream.  It was Mad River, and Piqua was not more than a mile up its stream.

“Surely they will fight us here,” was the thought of Clark.  He halted his army and the scouts crossed the stream at many points.  They beat up the woods and found no enemy, although Piqua was so near.  Then the order to march was given again, and the whole army plunged into the stream.  The heavy wheels of the cannon grated on the bottom, but they were still kept in the very center of the force.  Clark never abated his resolve to protect these guns at all hazards from capture.  But the cannon passed safely, and then came Logan with the rear guard.  It, too, crossed and the commander drew a mighty breath of relief.

“How far away is Piqua now?” he asked of a man who had once been a prisoner there.

“Not more than a mile,” he replied.  “Soon you can see the smoke from it rising above the trees.”

“Ah, I see it now.  Then they have not set their town on fire, and they are not running away.  We shall have a battle.”

The news was quickly passed throughout the army, and eagerness began to show.  The men wanted to be led on at once.  It was nearly noon, and grass and foliage were dry again.  There was not a cloud in the heavens, and the sun was a golden circle in a solid blue dome.

“Finest day for a fight I ever saw,” said Tom Ross.

Paul laughed but it was a nervous laugh, coming from high tension.  He was not afraid, but he knew they were going into battle.  They passed into the forest and beyond in an open space they saw the houses, wigwams and tepees of Piqua scattered along Mad River.  Just before them was a sort of prairie covered with weeds as high as a man’s head.  Henry threw himself flat upon the ground and peered in among the weeds.

“Back! back!” he cried in a tremendous voice.  “The warriors are here!”

His sharp eyes had caught glimpses of hundreds of forms lying among the weeds.  The whole army recoiled, and then a sheet of flame burst from the field, followed by the fierce war whoop of the Indians.  The bullets sung in swarms like bees over his head, but knowing that all would fire at once after the Indian custom, he leaped to his feet, and ran to the shelter of the forest before they could reload and deliver the second volley.

“Here’s a tree, Henry,” said Shif’less Sol; “a lot of officers wanted it, but I’ve saved it for you.”

But it was good-natured banter.  There was not a sign of panic in the army.  The men at once formed themselves into line of battle, according to their instructions, and opened a terrible fire upon the weeds in which the warriors lay concealed.  Hundreds of bullets swept every part of the cover, and then the cannon sent in round shot and grape, cutting down weeds and warriors together, and driving the savage force in flight to shelter.

But Timmendiquas, who had chosen the position, had reckoned well.  The field was not only covered with high weeds, but the portion near the town was intersected with deep gullies.  The warriors fell back in good order and sought refuge in these gullies which would hold hundreds.  Here bullets, cannon balls and grape shot alike passed over their heads, and suffering but little loss, they sent back a storm of their own bullets.

The army advanced to the edge of the woods, and was ready to charge across them but Colonel Clark hesitated.  Before they could reach the gullies his men might be cut in pieces by a protected foe.  The five, Boone, and many other of the best frontiersmen had already sought the shelter of stones or little hillocks, and were firing at every head that appeared above the edge of the gullies.  Before the smoke became too dense Henry saw beyond the gullies that Piqua was a large town, larger than they had supposed.  It would perhaps be impossible for the army to envelop it.  In fact, it was built in the French-Canadian style and ran three miles up and down Mad River.

Henry heard the fierce war whoop rising again and again above the firing which was now an unbroken crash.  He also heard another and shriller note, and he knew it was the shouting that came from the vast swarm of squaws and children in Piqua.  The yell of the Indians also took on a triumphant tone.  It seemed that the beginning of the battle was in their front, and the ambushed warriors in the gullies were strengthened by other forces on their right and left that crept forward and opened a heavy fire from cover.  Along a range of more than a mile there was a steady flash of firing, and it seemed impossible for any force to advance into it and live.

Fortunate, again fortunate, and thrice fortunate were the frontiersmen who were veterans, also!  The cannon were sheltered in the wood and the men were made to lie down.  The great guns still thundered across the field, but the riflemen held their fire, while the Indian shout of triumph swelled higher and higher.  In this terrible moment when many another commander would have lost his head, the staunch heart of Clark never faltered.  He hastily called his leading officers and scouts, and while the battle flamed before them, he gave his orders behind a screen of bushes.  He bade Colonel Logan, assisted by Colonel Floyd and Colonel Harrod, to take four hundred men, circle to the east of the town as quickly as he could, and attack with all his might.  After giving a little time for the circuit, Clark, with the artillery, would march straight across the field in the face of the main Indian force.  He gave Henry and his comrades their choice as to which body with which they would march.

“We go with you and the artillery across the field,” replied Henry at once.

“I thought so,” said Clark with a smile.

The five lay down at the edge of the forest.  Full of experience, they knew that it was not worth while now to be sending bullets toward the gullies.  They knew, also, that the charge in which they were about to take part would offer as much danger as anything they had ever met.  It is likely that every one of them thought of Wareville, and their kin, but they said nothing.

A few men in front maintained the fire in order to keep the Indians across the field busy, but the great majority, lying quiet, waited to hear the rifles of Logan and the four hundred.  Meanwhile this flanking force emerged from the woods, and having now become the left wing of the American army, sought to rush the town.  It was immediately assailed by a powerful Indian force, and a furious battle followed.  One side of it was exposed to another field from which Indians sent in bullets in showers.  Nevertheless the men, encouraged by Logan, Floyd, and Harrod, drove straight toward Piqua.  The Indians in front of them were led by Girty, Braxton Wyatt, Blackstaffe and Moluntha, the Shawnee, and they fought alike from open and covert, offering the most desperate resistance.  The four hundred were compelled now and then to yield a few yards, but always they gained it back, and more.  Slowly the town came nearer, and now Logan’s men heard to their right a welcome crash that told them Clark was advancing.

As soon as Clark heard the sound of Logan’s battle, he gave the signal to his men to attack.  In front of them, much of the smoke had lifted, and they could see the field now, with most of its weeds cut away.  Beyond was a strip of woods, and on the other side of the woods but already visible through the bushes, lay the long town.

“Now for it!” cried Henry to his comrades who were close about him.

“Forward!” shouted Clark, and with a tremendous shout the men charged into the field, the artillery drawn as always in the center and blazing the way.  From the gullies came the answering fire in shower after shower of bullets.  Henry heard them thudding upon human bodies, and he heard the low cries of men as they fell, but the smoke and the odor of gunpowder were in his nostrils, and his head was hot.  Everything was red before him, and he had a furious desire to reach the gullies and rush in among the Indians.  It was only two hundred yards across the field, but already the smoke was gathering in dense clouds, split apart now and then by the discharges of the cannon.  Behind them the charging men left a trail of dead and dying.  Henry took a hasty look to see if his comrades were still upon their feet.  Two were on one side of him and two on the other.  There was a patch of red on Jim Hart’s shoulder and another on Tom Ross’s, but they did not seem to amount to anything.

Half way across the field the column staggered for a moment under the heavy fire which never slackened for an instant, but it recovered itself quickly and went on.  The smoke lifted and Henry saw Timmendiquas at the edge of the nearest gully, a splendid figure stalking up and down, obviously giving orders.  He had expected to find him there.  He knew that wherever the battle was thickest Timmendiquas would be.  Then the smoke drifted down again, and his head grew hotter than ever.  The firing increased in rapidity and volume, both before them and on their left.  The crash of the second battle moved on with them.  Even in those rushing moments Henry knew that the left flank under Logan was forcing its way forward, and his heart gave a leap of joy.  If the two commands ever united in the village they might crush everything.  So eager did he become that he began to shout:  “On!  On!” without knowing it.

They were nearing the gullies now and once more Henry saw Timmendiquas who seemed to be shouting to his men.  It was a fleeting glimpse but so vivid and intense that Henry never forgot it.  The great Wyandot chief was a very war god.  His eyes flamed and fiercely brandishing his great tomahawk, he shouted to the warriors to stand.

The left flank under Logan and the larger force under Clark were now almost in touch.  The American line of battle was a mile long and everywhere they were faced by a foe superior in numbers.  Despite the cannon, always terrifying to them, the Indians stood firm, and behind them thousands of women and children urged them on to the conflict.  They knew, too, the greatness of the crisis.  The war that they had carried so often to the white settlements in Kentucky was now brought to them.  One of their great towns, Chillicothe, was already destroyed.  Should Piqua, the other, share the same fate?  Timmendiquas, the greatest of the leaders, the bravest of men said no, and they sought to equal his courage.  No Indian chief that day shirked anything; yet the white foe always advanced, and the boom of the cannon sounded in their ears like the crack of doom.  Some of the balls now passed over the fields through the strip of woods and smashed into the houses of the town.  The shouting of the women became shriller.

Nearer and nearer came the white enemy.  The great barrels and wheels of the cannon loomed terribly through the smoke.  The blasts of fire from their muzzles were like strokes of lightning.  The Indians in the first gully began to leap out and dart back.  Henry saw the dusky figures giving way and he shouted, still unconsciously, ­“On!  On!  They’re running!  They’re running!” Others had seen the same movement, and a roar of triumph passed up and down the white line, thinned now by the rifle fire, but no longer in doubt of victory.

They rushed upon the gullies, they cleaned out the first and second and third and all; they helped the cannon across, and now the contact between the two forces was perfect.  They bore down upon the town, but they encountered a new obstacle.  Rallied by Timmendiquas and others the warriors filled the strip of woods between the fields and Piqua.  They lay down in the undergrowth, they hid behind every tree, and shouting their war cries, they refused to give another step.  But Clark, the astute, would not permit any diminution in the zeal of his men, now carried to the highest pitch by seeming victory.  He knew the danger of allowing the fire of battle to grow cold.

He ordered a rifle fire of unparalleled rapidity to be poured into the wood, and then the cannon were loaded and discharged at the same spot as fast as possible.  Not an Indian could show his head.  Boughs and twigs rattled down upon them.  Saplings cut through at the base by cannon shot fell with a crash.  Although Timmendiquas, Moluntha, Captain Pipe and others raged up and down, the warriors began to lose spirit.  It was soon told among them that Girty and all the other renegades had ceased fighting and had retired to the town.  Girty was a white man but he was wise; he was faithful to the Indians; he had proved it many times, and if he gave up the battle it must be lost.  Never had the Indians fought better than they had fought that day but it seemed to them that the face of Manitou was turned from them.

While they doubted, while the moment of gloom was present, Clark with his whole united force rushed into the wood, drove every warrior before him, followed them into Piqua, and the Indian host was beaten.