“Fly! Fly!” Men who had no weapons caught little ones in their arms and ran toward the fort. All was wild alarm.
“What is it?” cried Colonel Chouteau, who had been busy with some papers of importance.
“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted his brother.
“Call out the militia! Where is the Governor?”
“In his own house, drunk as usual,” cried Pierre indignantly, and he ran to summon the soldiers.
There had been a small body of troops under the command of Captain Cartabona, a Spaniard sent from Ste. Genevieve at the urgent request of the chief citizens, but it being a holiday they were away, some canoeing down the river or fishing, and of the few to be found most of them were panic stricken. The captain had been having a carouse with the Governor.
“Then we must be our own leaders. To arms! to arms! every citizen! It is for your wives and children!” was the inspiriting cry.
“You shall be our leader!” was shouted in one voice almost before the Colonel had ceased. For Colonel Chouteau was not only admired for his friendliness and good comradeship, but trusted to the last degree.
Every man rushed for his gun and ran to the rescue, hardly knowing what had happened save that the long-feared attack had come upon them unawares. They poured out of the fort, but the flying women and children were in the advance with the Indians back of them.
Colonel Chouteau marshalled his little force in a circuitous movement, and opened a volley that took the Indians by surprise. They fell back brandishing their arms and shouting to their companions to come on. Then the Colonel saw that it was no mere casual attack, but a premeditated onslaught. Already bodies were lying on the ground struggling in death agonies.