“You will never take a man, woman or child alive,” yelled Silas.  “We remember Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give up to be butchered.  Come on with your red-jackets and your red-devils.  We are ready.”

“We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all hope of succor must be abandoned.  Your doom is sealed.”

“What kind of a man was he?” shouted Sullivan.

“A fine, active young fellow,” answered the outlaw.

“That’s a lie,” snapped Sullivan, “he was an old, gray haired man.”

As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult their companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of the portholes of the block-house.  It was followed by the ringing report of a rifle.  The Indian chief clutched wildly at his breast, fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat, slipped to the ground.  He raised himself once, then fell backward and lay still.  Full two hundred yards was not proof against Wetzel’s deadly smallbore, and Red Fox, the foremost war chieftain of the Shawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter’s vengeance.  It was characteristic of Wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could have shot either the British officer or the renegade.  They retreated out of range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, while the horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods.  Wetzel’s yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the Indians to a very frenzy, and they started on a run for the Fort, discharging their rifles and screeching like so many demons.

In the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the Indians spread out and surrounded the Fort.  A tremendous rush by a large party of Indians was made for the gate of the Fort.  They attacked it fiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as a battering-ram.  But the stout gate withstood their united efforts, and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fall back and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks.  From these points of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire.

The soldiers had made a dash at the stockade-fence, yelling derision at the small French cannon which was mounted on top of the block-house.  They thought it a “dummy” because they had learned that in the 1777 siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried to utilize a wooden one.  They yelled and hooted and mocked at this piece and dared the garrison to fire it.  Sullivan, who was in charge of the cannon, bided his time.  When the soldiers were massed closely together and making another rush for the stockade-fence Sullivan turned loose the little “bulldog,” spreading consternation and destruction in the British ranks.

“Stand back!  Stand back!” Capt.  Pratt was heard to yell.  “By God! there’s no wood about that gun.”