As night drew its heavy curtains around the beleaguered cabin, Charlie experienced a feeling of dread creeping over him. He felt comparatively safe while he could see the foe; but now the night seemed ominous of evil. The wind moaning through the trees, the ticking of the insect under the bark in the logs, and even the shrill chirping of the cricket, sounded unnatural to him. He thought of the dead and gory forms stretched upon the greensward without; the grass matted with human blood; the imprecations and fierce shouts that had resounded, and the deathly struggles that passed before him while sheltered by the friendly tree; the heavy tramp of men fighting in the deadly struggle; the sharp reports of the fire-arms; the horrible screams and heart-piercing pleadings of women and children as they were murdered and tortured by the savages; the lurid glare of the burning cabins; the Indians dancing and yelling in horrid mirth: his active brain was filled with such remembrances. In the stillness and loneliness of night, in that cabin, these awful scenes came up with appalling vividness, and weird and demon faces seemed to peep and mutter at him from the corners of the room. Once he fancied that he heard the cellar stairs creak under a heavy tread. And while Bub slept peacefully in childish unconsciousness of his brother's terror, he shivered and watched through that long night until the rosy beams of morning dispelled the illusions of the darkness. CHAPTER XX. LONG HAIR. The news of Mr. Jones's death, together with the atrocities connected with the Indian uprising, spread a gloom throughout the fort; and when, two days later, the funeral of the pioneer took place, tears were in many a veteran's eye. General McElroy respected the qualities which had marked the last days of the deceased, and said,-- "He did not serve in the ranks, but if ever a man deserved a soldier's burial, poor Jones does; and he shall have it." So the body was borne to the grave under military escort, the soldiers marching to the mournful strains of the funeral dirge and muffled drums; the corpse was lowered to its last resting-place; the burial service read with a trembling voice by the chaplain,--for the missionary had taken his place among the mourners by the side of the widow,--the usual salute was fired, and the procession retraced its steps. Mrs. Jones felt that she was now bereaved indeed, and almost alone in the world, and it became a question with her what she could do, under the circumstances, for herself and family. Disconsolately she discussed this matter with Tom.