So it was. One hurried look by the light of a lamp showed that not a bow, not an arrow remained on the walls.
But there was no time for exclaiming or conjecturing. Oliver rushed back to the gallery and bade all the women and children collect and keep within quarters. Around it, under Sergeant Kippis, he stationed a cordon. Next, and while the house was being thoroughly wet down, the ammunition stores were drawn upon, and extra guns and cartridges were carried into the long reception-room, where the women could assist in reloading. Barely three minutes had passed since Oliver sent his messengers. But headquarters was fixed to withstand an assault and to protect its inmates. And now, still ignorant of what had befallen, he ordered the remainder of his men into line.
At this point, with the detachment about to move, a volley of rifle shots sounded from the stockade—another—and another. Then up went a great hubbub: "The Indians! The Indians!"
Oliver started his troopers double-quick across the square. At the hospital one of the stockade guard stopped them.
"The Indians?" croaked Oliver.
"Gone!"
The troopers took up the cry: "Gone! The Indians are gone!"
Oliver turned them back.
They met a second man, black-faced, staggering, frenzied with alarm. It was Fraser. He caught at the captain's ragged sleeve.
"Shot—other side—they're over there—those girls!—those girls——" His breath failed him.