Kenneth paused.
"Go on," said his hearer, in smothered tones.
Little Horn, with native delicacy, had withdrawn and thrown himself upon the grass just out of earshot.
Kenneth went on.
"These two families were the sole residents of the little valley; the nearest white neighbor lived miles away on the other side of the mountains, and between lay forests filled with wild beasts and hostile Indians.
"One lovely summer day Mr. Clark was helping his neighbors in the field, his wife visiting theirs. She had taken her children with her and they were at play in the door-yard.
"In the course of the day both mother and daughter were taken sick, and two babes were born within half an hour of each other.
"Mrs. Clark had her hands more than full in attending upon the women, and the children, both boys, hastily wrapped in a blanket and laid in the same cradle, had received no further attention, when a scream from her own little ones, 'Mother, mother! the Injuns! the Injuns!' sent her flying to their rescue."
"Yes, yes," sobbed his listener. "Oh, my darlings, tomahawked and scalped before my very eyes! I see their bleeding corpses now! Their father's too, shot down as he came running from the field to try to save us. And then I was dragged away never to see home or relations again!"
"Then you are indeed Reumah Clark?"