but still on his feet. Eager hands received him and his burden; the
gate slammed to and the bar fell into place.

"Hurt, Logan?"

"No. Never mind me; watch the walls."

There were bullet-holes in his shirt and hat. The gate and the pickets
enclosing it were riddled, but by a miracle the lead had not touched
his flesh.

The women tended to Burr. He was grievously wounded--he lived six
weeks and died in his bed, which was better than dying by torture or
the tomahawk. So Captain Logan's hero deed had not been in vain.

The rescue made the Indians very angry. They laid themselves to the
siege, and so briskly they maintained it that there was no rest for the
little garrison of only ten able-bodied men, nor was there any chance
for succor from Harrodsburg or Boonesborough.

Within less than a week the ammunition was almost spent, and the food
alarmingly low. Help must be summoned from the Holston settlement on
the Holston River in southwestern Virginia, two hundred miles by
Boone's Trace.

How many might be spared from the feeble garrison? Not more than
two--not more than one; and after a short debate, Captain Logan himself
set out, in the night of June 6.

It was a forlorn hope, but he slipped out amidst the darkness, by way
of a loosened picket in the rear of the stockade, and vanished. The
garrison strained their ears, listening. They heard nothing, and
breathed a sigh of relief. For an hour more they listened, fearing
sudden burst of whoops and shots. Silence reigned. Good! Captain
Logan was through the lines by this time.

But could he make it, when all the surrounding country was being
watched by the Shawnee scouts? He had planned to avoid the Boone
Trace. That surely would be guarded close; it was the white man's
road. He was to follow no trail at all, and the wilderness had
swallowed him.

Two weeks passed. There was no token of any nature from Captain Logan.
Likely enough he had perished; the bullet, the tomahawk, perhaps the
torture stake, had stopped him. His wife was in despair, and the
garrison were beginning to despair, for the powder had dwindled, and
the Indians had relaxed their relentless circle for never an instant.
It seemed impossible that a man could get through them, going or coming.

In the night of June 23 the guards heard a scratching on the loose
picket. A trick? Be careful.

"Hist! It's I--Logan."

What! They stood aside, with hatchets lifted; but he it was,