Three horrified voices repeated that fearful word. Charles Markley felt too deeply for words. At the first mention of that—to him—horrible word, his thoughts ran back to the little cabin which contained Emily Hinton, and a feeling of dismay fell upon him. A host of questions were being showered upon the scout, but he raised his hand, and all paused before his voice sounded.
“Stop, don’t interrupt me; there’s no time to lose,” he vociferated. “Several hundred Injins have crossed the river, and are on their way to murder and destroy. They are sworn to gain possession of all this State. It’s pretty sure they’ll have things their own way for a time. You have horses?”
A silent assent.
“Then you, Mr. Markley, and Alf, jist put in yer best licks, and harness up. And mind—not a minute is ter lose.”
“Can we fight them till assistance arrives?” asked Mr. Markley.
The scout shook his head.
“If fight war’ possible, Davy is the last one what would say ‘run.’ But it isn’t. In half-an-hour at most, hundreds of ’em will be here, with old Black Hawk and that devil’s own pup, Wild Bill Ashbey, at their head. There’s nothin’ in this part to stop ’em, so jist hurry. And you, Miss Markley, jist scratch up yer choicest things, and what ye’ve got in the house that’ll do to eat.”
In a moment the three persons were busy at their appointed tasks, for they felt the leading mind of the scout—knowing that when he directed, they had but to perform. Charles had pressed near the scout, but, as yet, he found no opportunity to speak. Now, the scout placed a hand upon the shoulder of the young man, and drew him apace nearer himself.
“Young man,” he said, “I’ve somethin’ to tell ye.”
The fear which the young man had felt now deepened. His face grew fearfully pallid, and his voice trembled.