“How near to the cabin now?”
“Less than half a mile,” I told him as I soothed my horse and permitted him to pick his way around the dead.
Once more we were off, but now Cousin ran behind, for the way was winding and narrow, and at places the overhanging boughs tried to brush me from the saddle.
There was no need of glancing back to make sure my companion was keeping up, for his impatient voice repeatedly urged me to make greater speed.
“If the cabin ain’t standin’ we’ve got to have ’nough of a lead to let us lose ’em in the woods,” he reminded.
The path completed a détour of some tangled blackberry bushes and ended in a natural opening, well grassed.
“There it is! The roof is partly burned!” I encouraged.
“The walls stand. The door’s in place. Faster!”
Across the opening we raced. From the woods behind arose a ferocious yelling. The Shawnee were confident they had driven us into a trap. We flashed by two dead cows and some butchered hogs, and as yet I had not seen an Indian except the one masked in a bear’s pelt. The cabin roof was burned through at the front end. The door was partly open and uninjured.
It was simple reasoning to reconstruct the tragedy even while we hastened to shelter. The family had offered resistance, but had been thrown into a panic at the first danger from fire. Then it was quickly over. Doubtless there had been something of a parley with the usual promise of life if they came out. The fire crackled overhead, the victims opened the door.