“Yes, sir, and the hammer in it, but I have the spike thrust through a piece of beef in my haversack.”
“All right. There are stones enough around to supply the absence of a hammer.”
“Volunteers to the front!” said Ronayne, in a low, firm tone, and with compressed lip. “What Hardscrabble men will follow me?”
Simultaneously, Sergeant Nixon, Corporals Collins and Green; Phillips, Watson, Weston, and Degarmo, stepped forth, with several others, anxious to be of the party, until the number was made up, and again the diminished square closed upon its centre.
“Not yet,” cried Captain Headley, who, having once more applied the glass to his eye, was closely watching the movements of the Indian mass. “Nothing must be left to mere chance. Mr. Elmsley, what is the position of the wagon which contains the ammunition?”
“It was the leading one, sir,” returned the officer addressed. “What alteration has been made in the act of throwing them into square, I cannot possibly tell.”
“See, is not that it?” asked the commanding officer, pointing to one from the top of which several casks protruded.
“It is,” was the reply.
“Then, Mr. Ronayne, first lead your party to the wagons and let each man load himself from the keg of ball cartridge, and as many grenades as he can carry—these must supply the place of larger shot, if we get the gun. Lose no time. There is not an Indian on that side of the sandhill now, and you will easily accomplish your object. Sampson,” addressing the armorer, “you may as well avail yourself of the opportunity to get your heavy hammer. The stones about here are brittle, and may break.”
In little more than five minutes, this first part of their duty was accomplished, although under circumstances far more painful and repugnant than the more dangerous one in reserve. On their way to the wagons they were compelled to pass close to the scalped and disembowelled body of the brave but unfortunate Wells, whose still bleeding heart, only half eaten, was encrusted with sand, and bore the ragged impress of teeth driven furiously and voraciously into it. On their arrival near the wagons, their nerves were further tried by the horrible and disgusting spectacle of the slain children, whose scalped heads and mutilated remains gave unmistakable evidence of the fate that awaited themselves unless Providence should interpose a miracle in their favor, while their ears were assailed by the stifled groans and sobbings of mothers who had covered their heads up with blankets and sheets, not only with a view to shut out the appalling sight of their murdered offspring, but to seek exemption from a similar fate. So confused was the perception of those poor, unhappy creatures, that they could not identify either the voices or the language of those who were now near them—some, the fathers of the innocents they mourned—but believed them to be Pottowatomies, and it was not until they had departed, and were out of sight, that they ventured again to uncover their heads, and breathe a pure air.