A TRIP TO BALD EAGLE ROCK
Molly gave one glance and screamed. Then flung herself to her knees and buried her face in Helena’s lap, who pityingly drew her light skirt over the child’s head. Nobody else moved nor spoke. All felt their last hour had come.
“An Indian raid!”
This was their thought and then of their helplessness. This company was only the forerunner of more!
“Massacre! Oh! to die like this!”
Even the lads’ faces blanched, but resolution flashed from their observant eyes, and these beheld a strange spectacle.
The superbly mounted Indians, in their gaudiest attire, bead-decked shirts and fringed leggings, their supple feet clad in embroidered moccasins, outshone even the most magnificent of “Wild West” shows; and without a spoken word each understood the desire of their Chief. They rode to the semi-circle of concrete before the main entrance to the great house and ranged themselves around it, the Chief in front, alone, and as the last hoof fell into position where the rider wished, they became as rigid as a company of warriors carved in stone.
“What will they do next!” was the wonder in all the observers’ minds, as they gazed in fascination at this curious sight.
What they would do next seemed long in coming. Though it was but a few moments it seemed like ages while the redskins waited, stolid, immovable before the doorway of the mansion. But, at last, the spell was broken.
Across from the Barracks, around the corner, through the cloistered walk, came Captain Lemuel, whistling. He was in good spirits; ready to join his “Squad” beside the fountain and have an evening’s “gabble” with the youngsters. They had been abnormally good that day. Wholly obedient to his restrictions in the length of their rides, eager to improve in their shooting—which was so far removed from “sharp”; and in every respect so “decent” that he puzzled his brain to find the best story to tell them of old days in Colorado and of his own prowess therein.