Her head was bare, and her
dress was in strips. Four children lay beside her' the youngest
two with their heads in her lap. The other two, who might be
eleven and thirteen each, had pillowed their heads on their arms,
and lay in the dull apathy that comes from the finish of both
strength and hope. The woman's face was pitiful. She had more
to fear than the children, and she knew it. She was so worn that
the skin hung loosely on her face, and her eyes showed despair
only. The sad spectacle was almost more than Paul could stand.
"I don't like to shoot from ambush," he said, "but we could cut
down half of those warriors at our firs fire and rush in on the
rest."
"And those we didn't cut down at our first volley would tomahawk
the woman and children in an instant," replied Henry. " We
agreed, you know, that it would be sure to happen. We can't do
anything until night comes, and then we've got to be mighty
cautious."
Paul could not dispute the truth of his words, and they withdrew
carefully to the crest of a hill, where they lay in the
undergrowth, watching the Indians complete their fire and their
preparations for the night. It was evident to Henry that they
considered themselves perfectly safe.
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