damage had come in the first moments of surprise
when a number of the early-rising men were caught exposed in the light of
the campfires they were building. The Indians--for Indians Laban
declared them to be--had attacked us from the open, and were lying down
and firing at us. In the growing light father made ready for them. His
position was near to where I lay in the burrow with mother so that I
heard him when he cried out:

"Now! all together!"

From left, right, and centre our rifles loosed in a volley. I had popped
my head up to see, and I could make out more than one stricken Indian.
Their fire immediately ceased, and I could see them scampering back on
foot across the open, dragging their dead and wounded with them.

All was work with us on the instant. While the wagons were being dragged
and chained into the circle with tongues inside--I saw women and little
boys and girls flinging their strength on the wheel spokes to help--we
took toll of our losses. First, and gravest of all, our last animal had
been run off. Next, lying about the fires they had been building, were
seven of our men. Four were dead, and three were dying. Other men,
wounded, were being cared for by the women. Little Rish Hardacre had
been struck in the arm by a heavy ball. He was no more than six, and I
remember looking on with mouth agape while his mother held him on her lap
and his father set about bandaging the wound. Little Rish had stopped
crying. I could see the tears on his cheeks while he stared wonderingly
at a sliver of broken bone sticking out of his forearm.

Granny White was found dead in the Foxwell wagon. She was a fat and
helpless old woman who never did anything but sit down all the time and
smoke a pipe. She was the mother of Abby Foxwell. And Mrs. Grant had
been killed. Her husband sat beside her body. He was very quiet. There
were no tears in his eyes. He just sat there, his rifle across his
knees, and everybody left him alone.

Under father's directions the company was working like so many beavers.
The men dug a big rifle pit in the centre of the corral, forming a
breastwork out of the displaced sand. Into this pit the women dragged
bedding, food, and all sorts of necessaries from the wagons. All the
children helped. There was no whimpering, and little or no excitement.
There was work to be done, and all of us were folks born to work.

The big rifle pit was for the women and children. Under the