“And whom mean you by Indian partisans?” the undaunted governor had demanded.

“I take Major Hay to be one of them,” our Colonel had answered.

It was soon a matter of common report how Clark had gazed fixedly at the Major when he said this, and how the Major turned pale and trembled.  With our own eyes we saw them coming out, Major Hay as near to staggering as a man could be, the governor blushing red for shame of him.  So they went sorrowfully back to the gate.

Colonel Clark stood at the steps of the church, looking after them.

“What was that firing?” he demanded sharply.  “I gave orders for a truce.”

We who stood by the church had indeed heard firing in the direction of the hills east of the town, and had wondered thereat.  Perceiving a crowd gathered at the far end of the street, we all ran thither save the Colonel, who directed to have the offenders brought to him at Monsieur Bouton’s.  We met the news halfway.  A party of Canadians and Indians had just returned from the Falls of the Ohio with scalps they had taken.  Captain Williams had gone out with his company to meet them, had lured them on, and finally had killed a number and was returning with the prisoners.  Yes, here they were!  Williams himself walked ahead with two dishevelled and frightened coureurs du bois, twoscore at least of the townspeople of Vincennes, friends and relatives of the prisoners, pressing about and crying out to Williams to have mercy on them.  As for Williams, he took them in to the Colonel, the townspeople pressing into the door-yard and banking in front of it on the street.  Behind all a tragedy impended, nor can I think of it now without sickening.

The frightened Creoles in the street gave back against the fence, and from behind them, issuing as a storm-cloud came the half of Williams’ company, yelling like madmen.  Pushed and jostled ahead of them were four Indians decked and feathered, the half-dried scalps dangling from their belts, impassive, true to their creed despite the indignity of jolts and jars and blows.  On and on pressed the mob, gathering recruits at every corner, and when they reached St. Xavier’s before the fort half the regiment was there.  Others watched, too, from the stockade, and what they saw made their knees smite together with fear.  Here were four bronzed statues in a row across the street, the space in front of them clear that their partisans in the fort might look and consider.  What was passing in the savage mind no man might know.  Not a lip trembled nor an eye faltered when a backwoodsman, his memory aflame at sight of the pitiful white scalps on their belts, thrust through the crowd to curse them.  Fletcher Blount, frenzied, snatched his tomahawk from his side.

“Sink, varmint!” he cried with a great oath.  “By the etarnal! we’ll pay the H’ar Buyer in his own coin.  Sound your drums!” he shouted at the fort.  “Call the garrison fer the show.”