upon me, must have meant an explosion, an upheaval shattering the cabin, bringing the roof down upon the struggling mob within, the heavy timbers crushing out their lives.  And the cause!  But one was possible—­the half-keg of blasting power Kennedy had placed in the corner as a last resort.  Had Tim reached it in a final, mad effort to destroy, or had some accidental flame wrought the terrible destruction?  Perhaps no one could ever answer that—­but, was I there alone, the sole survivor?  Had those others of our little party died amid their Indian enemies, and were they lying now somewhere in this darkness, crushed and mangled in the midst of the debris?

Kennedy, Elsie Clark, the half-witted boy Asa Hall—­their faces seemed to stare at me out of the blackness.  They must be dead!  Why, I had seen Kennedy fall, the heedless feet crunching his face, and Asa Hall tossed into the air and shot at as he fell.  Eloise!  Eloise!  I covered my eyes with the free hand, conscious that I was crying like a child—­Eloise.  My God, Eloise!  I wonder if I fainted; I knew so little after that; so little, except that I suffered helplessly.  That awful, pressing weight upon my chest, the impossibility of moving my limbs, the ceaseless horror of the dark silence, the benumbing knowledge that all about me lay those dead bodies, with sightless eyes staring through the black.  If I did not faint, then I must have been upon the verge of insanity, for there was a time—­God knows how long—­when all was blank.

Some slight, scarcely distinguishable noise aroused me.  Yes, it was actually a sound, as though someone moved in the room—­moved stealthily, as though upon hands and knees, seeking a passage in the darkness.  I imagined I could distinguish breathing.  Who, what could it be?  A man; a prowling wild animal which had scented blood?  But for my dry, parched lips I would have cried out—­yet even with the vain endeavor, doubt silenced me.  Who could be there—­who?  Some sneaking, cowardly thief; some despoiler of the dead?  Some Indian returned through the night to take his toll of scalps, hoping to thus proclaim himself a mighty warrior?  More likely enemy than friend.  It was better that I lie and suffer than appeal to such fiend for mercy.

The slight sound shifted to the right of where I lay, no longer reminding me of the slow progress of a moving body, but rather as though someone were attempting blindly to scrape together ashes in the fireplace.  Yes, that must be what was being done; whoever the strange invader might be, and whatever his ultimate purpose, the effort now being made was to provide a light, a flame sufficient to reveal the horror of the place—­to facilitate his ghastly work.  I would wait then; lie there as one dead until the coming of light helped me to solve the mystery.  Some life must still have lingered amid those ashes, for suddenly I caught, reflected on the log wall, the tiniest spurt of flame.  It grew so slowly, fed