“It is all true!” exclaimed Colonel Butler. “We must stay in the fort! We must not go out to meet them! We are not strong enough!”
A murmur of protest and indignation came from the younger officers.
“And leave the valley to be ravaged! Women and children to be scalped, while we stay behind log walls!” said one of them boldly.
The men in the Wyoming fort were not regular troops, merely militia, farmers gathered hastily for their own defense.
Colonel Butler flushed.
“We have induced as many as we could to seek refuge,” he said. “It hurts me as much as you to have the valley ravaged while we sit quiet here. But I know that we have no chance against so large a force, and if we fall what is to become of the hundreds whom we now protect?”
But the murmur of protest grew. All the younger men were indignant. They would not seek shelter for themselves while others were suffering. A young lieutenant saw from a window two fires spring up and burn like torch lights against the sky. They were houses blazing before the Indian brand.
“Look at that!” he cried, pointing with an accusing finger, “and we are here, under cover, doing nothing!”
A deep angry mutter went about the room, but Colonel Butler, although the flush remained on his face, still shook his head. He glanced at Tom Ross, the oldest of the five.
“You know about the Indian force,” he exclaimed. “What should we do?”