My father was captain of the militia and men was saddling up. I could hear horses snorting in the dark and the jangle of bits and bridles. Mother turned up the lamp as my father pulled on his boots and had words with his corporal.
The Piankeshaw had attacked again, this time at Hardin’s farm. The corporal lowered his voice so my mother might not hear the worst of it.
“They cut ‘im down, cap’n. Scalped ‘im and set the cabin afire and took captive Missus Hardin.”
My father asked how many they were. Number of muskets. Their direction of travel. Whilst the corporal told what he knew, my father gathered up his kit, his long rifle, powder horn and lead, and his tomahawk.