Here, then, Jared Dwight lived quietly for some time, until the afternoon of the day on which we bring the reader to his dwelling.
Dwight was hoeing a little patch of corn when a bullet came whistling past his ear, and the report of a rifle snapped out near at hand.
Dwight knew that the shot came from the woods.
He did not look around nor stop for a moment.
Where one shot had come from, more might come.
Without a moment’s hesitation the tall borderman bounded towards the door of his house, shouting out to his wife as he leaped onward.
A chorus of yells rang out, and a storm of bullets flew around and over the swiftly-running man; but he passed on without a scratch, and dashed safely into the door of the house.
The instant that he was in, his wife closed the portal with a bang, and dropped the heavy bar into its socket.
In one hand she held her rifle, and although her cheek paled somewhat, as she gazed upon the two frightened little ones crouching upon the floor in terror, yet her hands were as steady as those of her fearless husband.
“Jared, they’re Injins,” she said.