doors and windows, and they can't shoot through these thick logs."

"No, Tommy," interrupted his brother, patting the small boy's shoulder, "but they could burn the house, and then where should we be?"

"Run for the woods."

"And be shot there, out of hand. No, no! Mother, are the trunks ready to put in the wagon?"

"Yes, but wait for your father to help you with them. You and Tommy can take out the mattresses and pillows. The fort will probably be full of refugees, and we shall need our bedding."

At this moment Mr. Briscoe entered.

"Hello, Al, boy," he said, in his usual tone, as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Hello, father," returned Al, while Tommy ran to Mr. Briscoe for another kiss. "You got back early."

"Yes," answered his father, simply. He glanced at his son, and the two pairs of steady gray eyes looked understandingly into each other for a second. Then Mr. Briscoe walked to a shelf and took down an army musket which hung, together with a double-barrelled shotgun, on a rack beneath it. The musket was loaded, but he took off the old percussion cap and replaced it with a new one. He loaded the shotgun from a powder horn and shot flask on the shelf and then carefully examined a large, six-shot, 44-calibre Starr revolver, also already loaded, of a model at that time recent, in which each chamber was loaded from the front with powder and ball and fired by a percussion cap. By this time his wife, aided by Annie, had the kitchen utensils in the box. Having put the weapons in condition for instant use, Mr. Briscoe said:

"Now, Al, we can load these heavy things in the wagon. We want to take the saddle and the new plough, too; we can't afford to have them destroyed while we're gone. Tommy, turn Spot out in the pasture with the calf. She can get water from the creek, and there is plenty of grass for her. It is a good thing that calf isn't entirely weaned yet. We will leave the barn door open for the chickens to go in at night. Monty and Chick are feeding now. As soon as they have finished we must be ready to hitch up."

When they had placed the first trunk in the wagon and were alone, Mr. Briscoe turned to his son.

"Al," he said, speaking rapidly and in a low voice, "be careful not to alarm your mother and the children, but you must know that we are in the greatest danger and that our only chance of safety lies in getting to the fort without the least delay. The Indians at the Lower Agency have gone mad. They have killed every white they could lay their hands on and have started to sweep the whole country clean. Some of them may come here at any moment. My boy—" He laid his hand on Al's shoulder and his voice became very earnest. He spoke almost as if he felt a premonition of coming events. "My boy, I know I can trust you; you are almost a man in judgment and understanding. If we should encounter Indians before we reach the fort and anything should happen to me, remember that your first care must be your mother and your little brother and sister. Protect them with your life but keep cool and do not throw it away. And afterward,—well, my boy, just do your duty by our dear ones and yourself as you honestly see it; no one can do more. And remember always that you are the son of a soldier."

Al's face paled a little beneath the tan while his father was speaking but he returned the latter's gaze steadily until he had finished. Then he replied:

"Why, father, nothing is going to happen to you. But of course I shall remember what you say and always try to do the best I can by mother and the children."

"I know you will, Al. Now, let us load that trunk and box and the rest of the things."

They continued their work rapidly while Mrs. Briscoe was busy putting up some food to take along and placing the rest in the root cellar back of the house where it might keep from spoiling as long as possible during their absence. The day was hot and sultry, but the sky was beautifully blue, with here and there white, fleecy clouds floating lazily across it. Green, gently rolling prairies stretched away on every hand, broken here and there by patches of dark, cool woodland where the trees stood clustered on a slope or marked the winding course of some ravine or sluggish creek. From the Briscoe cabin could be caught glimpses between the trees north of it of the hay-cocks on the sun-flooded meadow, where Al and Tommy had been working. It was a tract of native prairie grass and a small one, for Mr. Briscoe had mowed it with a scythe. No sound broke the stillness of the early afternoon except the rustle of the breeze through the treetops and the piping of a chickadee which had perched on a sunflower stalk beside the stable. It seemed impossible that in the midst of such peaceful surroundings the horrors of savage massacre and warfare could be abroad in the land; and so Al thought as he looked about him, just as his father and he finished loading the last of the household goods which they intended to take with them.

They were starting to the barn after the horses when they heard the breaking of branches and a commotion among the bushes in the strip of woodland toward the meadow. Mr. Briscoe and his son turned in sudden apprehension and saw six Indians, one after another, issue from the woods and ride toward them. They were mounted on ponies and were naked except for breech-clouts, while their heads were decked with feathers and streaming war-bonnets, and their faces and bodies hideously bedaubed with paint. Mr. Briscoe turned and walked deliberately toward the house.

"Don't run," he cautioned Al, in a low tone. "But go in and stick the revolver in your pocket under your coat, and set the guns just inside the kitchen door. Tell your mother if she hears a shot to run with the children from the bedroom door and hide in the rushes along the creek. I'll meet the Indians here." He stopped by the kitchen door. Then suddenly he asked, "Where's Tommy?"

"In the house, I think," answered Al. But Tommy was not in the house. He had bethought himself of the eggs and was in the barn hunting them, unconscious of the approaching visitors.

Al disappeared in the kitchen, and Mr. Briscoe walked toward the ominous group of callers, who came on in silence until they reached the door, each holding with one hand a rifle or musket laid across the neck of his pony. They looked at the loaded wagon, which betrayed the impending flight of the family.

"How," said Mr. Briscoe, smiling and extending his hand.

No responsive smiles lit the faces of the Indians. They regarded him in gloomy silence while their leader, a fellow of lighter hue than the rest, evidently a half-breed, sprang to the ground and, ignoring Mr. Briscoe's extended hand, said, gruffly, in broken English,

"We want food."

"You shall have it," replied Mr. Briscoe. "Wait a minute."

He stepped toward the door but the half-breed was before him.

"We take what we want," he said, jerking his head toward his followers. "Come on."

Mr. Briscoe saw that conciliation was impossible. Once within the house they would have the family at their mercy. He stepped inside the door and with one push of his powerful arm thrust the half-breed out on the step.

"Stay out, and I'll feed you. But not if you come in," he said.

Al, looking through from the next room, saw his father's action and instantly understood that it meant trouble. With the sudden authority of a man in the emergency, he exclaimed to his mother, pushing her toward the south door,

"Run to the creek, you and Annie! Keep out of