The two couriers got away. Now for the water. Without water, Bryant's Station would suffer—might be burned.
"The women'll have to go for the water, boys."
"Why so? Women? You'd send the women out, to those tomahawks?"
The women had heard. They gathered, indignant.
"We're as brave as you are, but you can't count on hiding behind our skirts. Shame on you! If you're men, go yourselves. Why send us out? Our skins are no more bullet-proof than yours, and a woman's scalp is the same to an Indian as a man's. Go. Give us rifles and we'll protect you."
"No. Listen here. There are Injuns watchin' the spring, sure enough. They're waitin', in hopes we'll be drawn outside, after those other fellows. They know well that the fetchin' in of water is women's and children's work, and they know well that we'll likely to be needin' that same water. For us men to go out after it would raise suspicion. It would mean sartin death for us and a gen'ral attack before the reinforcements come. If you women go as usual, they'll not harm you. They'll lay close, thinkin' that we're unsuspicious, and that havin' the water we'll chase their other party. That's what they want. Go, every petticoat of you, and every child large enough to tote a piggin. It'll require spunk—we'll be prayin' for you as men never prayed before; but you'll come back safe—that we'll guarantee or we wouldn't send our wives and sisters and children on such a quest. You're Kentucky women and we're Kentucky men."
The women paled.
"I'll go," promptly said one.
"I'll go," said another, and another.
They all seized buckets and gourds; the boys and girls joined eagerly.