``Look out,'' she said; ``what d'ye see near the mill?''
Her sharp eyes had not deceived her, for mine perceived plainly a dark form skulking in the hickory grove.Next, a movement behind the rail fence, and darting back to my side of the house I made out a long black body wriggling at the edge of the withered corn-patch.They were surrounding us.How I wished that Tom were home!
A stealthy sound began to intrude itself upon our ears.
Listening intently, I thought it came from the side of the cabin where the lean-to was, where we stored our wood in winter.The black shadow fell on that side, and into a patch of bushes; peering out of the loophole, I could perceive nothing there.The noise went on at intervals.
All at once there grew on me, with horror, the discovery that there was digging under the cabin.
How long the sound continued I know not,--it might have been an hour, it might have been less.Now Ithought I heard it under the wall, now beneath the puncheons of the floor.The pitchy blackness within was such that we could not see the boards moving, and therefore we must needs kneel down and feel them from time to time.Yes, this one was lifting from its bed on the hard earth beneath.I was sure of it.It rose an inch--then an inch more.Gripping the handle of my tomahawk, I prayed for guidance in my stroke, for the blade might go wild in the darkness.Upward crept the board, and suddenly it was gone from the floor.I swung a full circle--and to my horror I felt the axe plunging into soft flesh and crunching on a bone.I had missed the head! A yell shattered the nights the puncheon fell with a rattle on the boards, and my tomahawk was gone from my hand.Without, the fierce war-cry of the Shawanees that I knew so well echoed around the log walls, and the door trembled with a blow.The children awoke, crying.
There was no time to think; my great fear was that the devil in the cabin would kill Polly Ann.Just then Iheard her calling out to me.
``Hide!'' I cried, ``hide under the shake-down! Has he got you?''
I heard her answer, and then the sound of a scuffle that maddened me.Knife in hand, I crept slowly about, and put my fingers on a man's neck and side.Next Polly Ann careened against me, and I lost him again.
``Davy, Davy,'' I heard her gasp, ``look out fer the floor!''
It was too late.The puncheon rose under me, Istumbled, and it fell again.Once more the awful changing notes of the war-whoop sounded without.A body bumped on the boards, a white light rose before my eyes, and a sharp pain leaped in my side.Then all was black again, but I had my senses still, and my fingers closed around the knotted muscles of an arm.I thrust the pistol in my hand against flesh, and fired.Two of us fell together, but the thought of Polly Ann got me staggering to my feet again, calling her name.By the grace of God I heard her answer.
``Are ye hurt, Davy?''
``No,'' said I, ``no.And you?''
We drifted together.'Twas she who had the presence of mind.
``The chest--quick, the chest!''
We stumbled over a body in reaching it.We seized the handles, and with all our strength hauled it athwart the loose puncheon that seemed to be lifting even then.
