"They burn buildings—have killed people—coming this way!"
Chitto spoke the truth, for the Sioux were raging like demons at that very hour at Lac Qui Parle.
"What shall we do, Chitto?" asked my mother.
"Get on horse—he carry you."
"But my husband; the horse can not carry all three of us."
My poor distracted mother scarcely knew what to do. All this time father sat like a statue in his chair. A terrible suspicion suddenly entered her mind, and she ran to him.
Placing her hand upon his shoulder, she addressed him in a low tone, and then uttered a fearful shriek, as she staggered backward, saying: "He is dead! he is dead!"
Such was the fact. The shock of the news brought by the little Indian girl was too much, and he had expired in his chair without a struggle. The wild cry which escaped my mother was answered by several whoops from the woods, and Chitto became frantic with terror.
"Indian be here in minute!" said she.
Mother instantly helped me upon the back of the horse and then followed herself. She was a skillful rider, but she allowed Chitto to retain the bridle, and we started off.