Captain Melton rode back to the settlement, after leaving Stillman, but had not gone far when the flying men from the band of heroes began to come up with him. Seeing that the war was begun in earnest he faced about and prepared to meet them as best he might, knowing nothing of the small force of Black-Hawk. After waiting all night for some sign of Indian pursuit, as none was made he drew off his men and reached the settlement some hours after the arrival of Stillman, who had been filling the ears of the inhabitants with stories of the cowardly conduct of the captain. The captain quickly set matters right, and only that he had more important business upon his hands, would have followed Stillman to the camp of Atkinson, to which he had directed his steps. Taking ten of his men, he rode up the river, to the residence of Mr. Wescott, but as he drew near, he found evidences upon every hand of the presence of the destroyer, and as he crossed the hill, saw, to his horror, that during the last night the cabin had been attacked. Wild with fear, he rushed in at the broken door and found every thing in confusion, and scattered here and there, various bits of Indian finery, beads and the like, which told him beyond a doubt who had done the work. “Indians,” said one of the men. “Good heaven, captain, they are killed!” They explored the house everywhere, but not a trace of the family could be seen. Upon the floor near the entrance was a little pool of fresh blood, which looked as if it had been shed the night before, and Melton looked at it with a shudder. “Where are they?” he groaned. “Who has done this ruin?” “It is always so in an Indian war,” said his lieutenant. “Some band of Indians coming up to join Black-Hawk, have rushed in on them, before they had time to fire a shot.” “Somebody has been hurt,” said Melton. “Ha! what have you got there, Chris?” One of the men came forward, holding in his hand a heavy knife, with about three inches broken from the point. Upon the hilt of the weapon, rudely engraved, was the name, “R. Garrett.” “Dick Garrett has been here, then,” said Melton, turning pale; “and if he has taken Sadie Wescott, it is done for Black Will. Oh! heaven, what shall we do?” “Hold on,” said a feeble voice from beneath their feet. “Help me out of this and I’ll let ye know.” “Some one is in the cellar,” said Melton. “Up with the trap and let him out.” The trap-door was opened, and Cooney Joe, bleeding and ghastly, appeared at the foot of the ladder. A dozen hands were extended to help him up, and he was seated upon one of the stools, gasping for breath. “What is this, Joe?” said Melton. “Speak, man; don’t you see that I am in torture until I know the worst?”