Agnes clutched Jeanie. “Where is my father?” she whispered. “Oh, what shall we do?”
“To the blockhouse!” The word was passed; then quickly lights were extinguished, and creeping slowly along in the darkness the whole company started forth, not knowing what moment the terrible yell of an Indian would startle them, or whether they could reach their refuge unhurt. Every one was silent as death. The dreaded word “Indians!” silenced even the smallest child who, clinging to its mother, understood something of the terror which inspired the older ones.
Close by Agnes’s side strode Archie. “They shall kill me before they take you,” he whispered.
But there was no need for his heroics, for once within the blockhouse they were safe, the Indians rarely attacking these little forts. It was found, however, that all were not gathered in the retreat, and that those who, for one reason or another, had not been at the housewarming were in danger.
“My father was off hunting,” said Agnes, pitifully. “He does not care for frolics, you know. Oh, if the Indians have found him, what shall I do?”
“Never fear, my lass,” Polly tried to reassure her. “I’ve no doubt he is hiding, and when the redskins go off, he’ll come in safe and sound.”
This was comforting, but still Agnes had her fears as one after another of the stragglers crept back to the fort, each with some new report. “Tell us your news, Sandy,” were the words which greeted the last comer.
“The Indians are burning and plundering the cabins,” he told them. “I sneaked around through the woods and got here safely. I don’t think there are many of them, just a small raiding party. They have made a dash, and will be off again presently. They’ll not attack the fort.”
“Did you see my father?” Agnes asked fearfully.
The man was silent a moment, then he answered: “I left him an hour since on his way here. Hasn’t he come?”