From time to time the tireless watcher moved from a port-hole and stepped noiselessly to another, commanding a different direction. The ordinary man could with difficulty have discerned an object upon the ground immediately below Boone’s position, but the keen eyes of the hunter, accustomed to the gloom of the forest, penetrated the darkness to at least the distance of fifty yards. Suddenly the silence was broken by the hoot of an owl. Boone listened intently. In a few seconds the cry was repeated, as though by a bird at some distance from the first. Boone stretched forth his foot and touched the form of a sleeper upon the floor. In an instant Kenton was on his feet, and at the same moment the owl’s cry again floated over the night air to them. “Injuns on the move, Kenton,” said Boone in low tones and without a trace of excitement in his voice. “Give Hardy a jolt. Now you two slip round the stockade in opposite directions. Have every man stand to his post as quietly as possible and wait for the signal from me. Not a shot, mind, till I fire, and then let them have it. Quick! They’re in the clearing already, if I’m not mistaken.” When Kenton and Hardy had disappeared down the ladder, Boone took up his rifle and ran his hand over the flint-lock. Satisfied that it was ready for service, he stood it against the wall by his side and peered out of the port-hole. Hardly more than five minutes had elapsed when he imagined that he discerned a dark wall moving towards him. A minute later he was certain. The Indians were about eighty yards away and stealing forward as noiselessly as shadows. Without removing his eyes from the advancing foe, Boone slowly brought his rifle into position and dropped his right cheek upon the stock. When he judged the line of redskins to be fifty yards distant he pressed the trigger. Boone’s signal shot had hardly sounded when seventy reports rang out almost in a volley. The Indians checked in surprise. Then with a yell they rushed forward, and again seventy trusty guns spoke with tongues of fire. Still the redskins came on, discharging their pieces as they ran. They were within a few paces of the stockade--some, indeed, had reached it--when once more the defenders fired into their ranks. Had they pushed the assault the savages might have carried the fort with their tomahawks, but they checked again and then fell back to reload. Then occurred one of those strange lulls that commonly happen in fights and even in battles. No movement was detectable on either side and comparative silence prevailed. Suddenly Kenton’s voice was heard serenely singing the lines of a popular ballad of the time: “If they hang poor Paddy for a thing like that, Whatever will they do with me?” “That fellow will sing going to his own funeral,” muttered Boone, but he was pleased to hear the cheery laugh that ran round the stockade in response to Kenton’s song.