The two men walked along, at first both mute, but no sooner did they come well in view of the kitchen door than they began to talk. Amos hoped there was nothing in the rumors of Indian troubles. “There’s only one band could make trouble,” said Harned. “Red Horse is a mean Indian, educated in the agency schools, and then relapsed. Say, who’s that running up the river-bank? Looks like Mrs. Roby’s sister. She’s got the baby.” His face and voice changed sharply, he crying out, “There’s something wrong with that woman!” and therewith he set off running to the house at the top of his speed. Half-way, Amos, running behind him, could hear a clamor of women’s voices, rising and breaking, and loud cries. Mrs. Brown came to the doorway, beckoning with both hands, screaming for them to hurry. When they reached the door they could see the new-comer. She was huddled in a rocking-chair, a pitiful, trembling shape, wet to the skin, her dank cotton skirts dripping, bareheaded, and her black hair blown about her ghastly face; and on her breast a baby, wet as she, smiling and cooing, but with a great crimson smouch on its tiny shoulder. Near her appeared Johnny D.’s white head. He was pale under his freckles, but he kept assuring her stoutly that uncle wouldn’t let the Indians get them. The woman was so spent with running that her words came in gasps. “Oh, git ready! Fly! They’ve killed the Robys. They’ve killed sister and Tom. They killed the children. Oh, my Lord! children! They was clinging to their mother, and crying to the Indians to please not to kill them. Oh, they pretended to be friendly—so’s to git in; and we cooked ’em up such a good supper; but they killed every one, little Mary and little Jim—I heard the screeches. I picked up the baby and run. I jumped into the river and swum to the boat—I don’t know how I done it—oh, be quick! They’ll be coming! Oh, fly!” Harned turned on Amos. “Flying’s no good on land, but maybe the boat—you’ll help?” “Of course,” said Amos. “Here, young feller, can you scuttle up to the roof-tree and reconnoitre with this field-glass?—you’re considerably lighter on your feet than me. Twist the wheel round here till you can see plain. There’s a hole, I see, up to the loft. Is there one out on the roof? Then scuttle!” Mrs. Brown pushed the coffee back on the stove. “No use it burning,” said she; and Amos admired her firm tones, though she was deadly pale. “If we ain’t killed we’ll need it. Dave, don’t forget the camera. I’ll put up some comforters to wrap the children in and something to eat.” She was doing this with incredible quickness as she spoke, while Harned saw to his gun and the loading of a pistol. The pistol she took out of his hands, saying, in a low, very gentle voice, “Give that to me, honey.” He gave her a strange glance. “They sha’n’t hurt little Davy or me, Dave,” she answered, in the same voice.