“It wouldn’t be a bad plan for you to tell your story,” Master Bartlett said, sharply. “I’ve seen some good tricks in my day, but this one goes ahead of any that’s ever been worked in the valley.” “It was planned by Elias Shendle,” Stephen Morley said, as soon as it was possible for him to control his mirth, “and I reckon we’d better tell the yarn where he can hear it, because the lad is entitled to all the credit for this night’s work.” Then we went into the cave, without making any effort to learn how many of the enemy had remained near by because of not having life enough left to run away, and, to my great surprise, I saw that Elias Shendle and Sam Rogers were on guard. “Have you so far got the best of your wounds that you can take part in a fight?” I asked, in astonishment, and the lad replied, grimly: “A fellow can do considerable when it is necessary in order to save his own life. Stephen Morley wanted to creep outside just after dark, that he might take a hand when you opened the battle, and there was no good reason why Sam Rogers and I couldn’t look to this part of the business, especially while the women were ready to load the guns.” “But I’m itching to know how you managed to send those balls of fire wherever one of John Butler’s wolves broke cover,” Master Bartlett cried, impatiently, and Elias replied, in a matter-of-fact tone: “There isn’t anything so very sharp about that trick, although I heard Master Morley speaking to you as if it was something great. We had a fair supply of powder, and during the afternoon, when there was nothing else to be done, I made fifteen or twenty balls about the size of a wren’s egg, wrapping them in leaves stuck together with a little mud. We knew you would be behind the Indians, therefore I had a handful of powder ready just at the entrance, so it could be flashed off when the fight began, to give you a chance to see exactly where the curs were hidden.” “Yes, yes, I understood that part of it,” Master Bartlett interrupted; “but what about the flying fire?” “Mistress Morley kept a brand ready, and I had put a fuse into the small balls of powder. When the fight was well started, I crept part way between the boulders; there I could have an idea of where the red sneaks were stationed, and as she lighted the fuse, I threw the ball in that direction, allowing that it would flash before striking the ground. It stirred them up a bit, I reckon.” “You’ve got a big head on your shoulders, Elias Shendle,” Master Bartlett said, emphatically, “and have done more toward driving John Butler’s murderers out of this valley than could have been effected by the killing of threescore. We can now count on having time and to spare for the journey to the river, because you won’t see one of those curs around here again until there are Tories enough with him to do the biggest part of the fighting.”