“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?”
“The worst is, that a party of red niggers, headed by Dick Garrett, made a rush at us last night, and took Mr. Wescott and the gal prisoners. I had a tussle with Dick Garrett, and one of them cussid reds hit me over the head with a hatchet, and I fell into the cellar. I do’no’ what drove ’em off, but they did not come down to raise my wool, and I’ve been too weak to git out without help.”