“They don’t know any better, Bob,” said Mason. “They are savages, but we are supposed to be civilized, and we ought to know better, if we don’t. A fair fight is one thing, but this is not fair.”
“Look there!” cried Joseph. “Did you see that?”
“No, what was it?” demanded Robert.
“An Indian girl held up her hands to surrender, and somebody shot her down. Do you call that right?”
“I certainly do not,” admitted Robert. “Where’s Deerfoot?”
“In the thick of it, I suppose,” answered Joseph. “We can’t stop him, for he wouldn’t understand, but we can at least keep out of it ourselves.”
The three volunteers were now standing on a bluff overlooking the great river. The Indians were hopelessly beaten and were making desperate efforts to escape. Men, women and children were trying to swim across the river, but many were drowned and others coolly picked off by sharpshooters stationed on the bank. The sight was sickening. The ground was littered with the corpses of Indians and many of the white men were taking scalps as freely as their red enemies ever did.
“There are a whole lot of Indians on that island,” cried Robert pointing to a small piece of ground covered with willows which lay not far from the shore.
“Not for long, though,” said Mason grimly. “Here comes the Warrior.”
The Warrior was a small steamer used to transport army supplies. On board were a few regulars and volunteers and a small cannon. The boat approached close to the island that Robert had indicated and fired round after round of canister, raking it from end to end. As if this were not enough a detachment of troops was landed on the island soon after the bombardment and with bayonets completed the destruction of the few remaining survivors.