Mrs. Arnold, and she fell dead in the
midst of her family.

The body of Mrs. Arnold was borne to the cellar by the sorrowing
husband, accompanied by the weeping children. The firing became
desultory and without apparent effect. Ball and arrow could not pierce
the thick walls of the log-house; only through the loop-holes could a
missile enter, and by rare good-fortune none of the defenders, after
the first casualty, chanced to be in line when one did.

The family again assembled in defence of their home and lives, the
grave necessity of keeping off the impending danger banishing, in a
measure, the thoughts of their bereavement. An ominous silence on the
part of the Indians was broken at last by the swish of a blazing arrow
to the roof. Mr. Arnold rushed to the garret, and with the butt of his
rifle broke a hole in the covering and flung the little torch to the
ground.

But another and another burning arrow followed, and in spite of
desperate and vigilant action the pine shingles burst into flames in
several places. At this juncture Henry, whose station was on the south
side of the house, approached Mr. Arnold and said:

"Sir, I see Chiquita grazing near the spring, close to the edge of the
willows, and the two Indians there with the herd keep well this way,
watching the fight. If you think best, I will creep through the
passage, mount, and ride to the fort for the soldiers."

Mr. Arnold did not at once reply. He took a long look through a
loop-hole towards the spring, and Henry, misinterpreting his silence,
said:

"Don't think I want to desert you, sir, and skip the ranch. I'll stay
here and do my best with the others, but I thought, perhaps, if I
could do it, I might save you all."

"God bless ye, my boy; nobody can doubt yer fightin' 'bility; yer was
born a soldier. I was only thinkin' yer chance uv gittin' by them two
redskins at the spring's mighty small."

"Then you think it a good plan?"

"Yes; I'd like to have ye do it, if ye can."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."

Then the lad passed around the rooms, taking the hand of each defender
in farewell until he reached Brenda. As he took her hand in his right
and fondly lay his left upon it, the young girl broke into
uncontrollable sobbing, and, throwing her disengaged arm over his
shoulder, said:

"Oh, Henry! what a dear, brave boy you are! You never think of
yourself, but always of your friends!"

"I will bring the soldiers, Brenda, and you shall