Rowland straightened.  The other smelled evilly of perspiration.

“Come where?  Who are you anyway, and what’s the matter?  Talk so I can understand you.”

“You don’t know that the Santees are on the ‘big trail’? of the massacre along the Minnesota River?”

“I know nothing.  Once more, who are you?”

“Who am I?  What does it matter?  My name is Hans Mueller.  I’m a trapper.”  Of a sudden he drew back, inspecting his impassive questioner doubtfully, almost unbelievingly.  “But come.  I’ll tell you along the way.  You mustn’t be here an hour longer.  I saw their signal smokes this very morning.  They’re murdering everyone—­men, women, and children.  It’s Little Crow who started it, and God knows how many settlers they’ve killed.  They chased me for hours, but I had a good horse.  It only gave out yesterday; and since then—­But come.  It’s suicide to chatter like this.”  He turned insistently toward the door.  “They may be here any minute.”

Rowland and his wife looked at each other.  Neither spoke a word; but at last the woman shook her head slowly.

Hans Mueller shifted restlessly.

“Hurry, I tell you,” he insisted.

Rowland sat down again deliberately, his heavy double chin folding over his soft flannel shirt.

“Where are you going?” he temporised with almost a shade of amusement.

“Going!” In his unbelief the German’s protruding eyes seemed almost to roll from his face.  “To the settlement, of course.”

“There is no settlement.”

“What?”

Rowland repeated his statement impassively.

“They’ve—­gone?” The tongue had grown suddenly thick again.

“I said so.”  The look of pity had altered, become almost of scorn.

For a half minute there was silence, inactivity, while despite tan and dirt and perspiration the cheeks of Hans Mueller whitened.  The same expression of terror, hopeless, dominant, all but insane, that had been with him alone out on the prairie returned, augmented.  Heedless of appearances, all but unconscious of the presence of spectators, he glanced about the single room like a beaten rabbit with the hounds close on its trail.  No avenue of hiding suggested itself, no possible hope of protection.  The cold perspiration broke out afresh on his forehead, at the roots of his hair, and in absent impotency he mopped it away with the back of a fat, grimy hand.

In pity motherly Mrs. Rowland returned to her seat, indicated another vacant beside the board.

“You’d best sit down and eat a bit,” she invited.  “You must be hungry as a coyote.”

“Eat, now?” Swiftly, almost fiercely, the old terror-restless mood returned.  “God Almighty couldn’t keep me here longer.”  He started shuffling for the door.  “Stay here and be scalped, if you think I lie.  We’re corpses, all of us, but I’ll not be caught like a beaver in a trap.”  Again he halted jerkily.  “Which way did they go!”