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A
RTHUR Henderson, at the age of five
and thirty, had got fairly into work
ing order one of the best farms in
Northwest Illinois. He had taken up
two hundred acres upon a rich and beautiful
slope, between the Missisippi and the Illinois,
near the head waters of a clear and sparkling
tributary of the former river. In addition to
his farm, and all the buildings necessary to his
comfort and convenience in carrying it on, he
had, at the time of which we write, improved
the grand water-power —a consideration of
which had decided him in the choice of a loca
tion —by erecting a double mill, in one depart
ment of which were two “run of stone,” for
grinding wheat and corn, and in the other a
complete set of machinery for sawing boards
and singles. In fact, he had so arranged it
that he could saw out about all sorts of lumber
that could be required in building a house. The
sawmill had just been completed, but the grist
mill had been in operation since spring; and
it was now late in the fall.
Mr. Henderson’s family consisted of himself,
his wife, three children, and two hired men.
Os his children —all girls—Ella was eight
years of age, Nannie was six, while Kate, the
naby, was but little over a year. There had
been sorrow in the cup of Arthur and Ellen
Henderson since Nannie “ran alone.”
Two bright eyed cherubs had come to bless
the yeoman’s cot, had learned to syllable, in
musical prattle, the names of the loved ones,
and had then been taken away by the inex
plorable messenger whom God sends to pluck
these sweet earth buds, that they may blossom
in a fairer clime. At all events, so Ellen Hen
derson, gazing heavenward through her gush
ing tears, was minded to regard the dispensa
tion which had bereft her.
We have said it was late in the fall. One
evening Mr. Henderson said to his wife:
“Ellen, I have concluded that I will go down
to the new settlement at Johnson’s Rapids to
morrow. I hear they have a lot of grain there,
which they may carry to Eastman’s if I do
not secure it; and then I will take down a few
hundred weight of flour with me. We have
plenty of water now, and the mill-stones really
seem to grunt and groan at standing still so
much. We’ve got a splendid head, and we
must improve it. This morning the water run
a foot over the flush-boards.”
Mrs. Henderson seemed rather pleased than
otherwise, at this announcement, because she
knew that several little things which she had
wanted from “the store” would be now forth
coming.
But when, shortly afterward, her husband
told her that the two hired men were going
with him, she was not quite so content. She
did not know as there could be any danger in
being thus left alone with the children for a
whole day; but she knew it would be very lone
some. The nearest neighbor was more than
a mile away, Mr. Henderson having diverged
from the main path of the settlers in order that
he might occupy the water-power, knowing
that in time the tide would set his way; but
it had not come yet.
“You won’t be afraid, will you, Ellen?’'
asked the husband, as he saw his wife’s coun
tenance fall.
“No,” replied Ellen, slowly and reluctantly.
“I don’t know as there’s anything to be afraid
of. You’ll be back before dark?”
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR WEEK OF AUG. 28
A BORDER HEROINE
The Thrilling Experience of a Pioneer Mother
“Certainly.’
“I dont suppose,” pursued the wife, “that
there are any Indians near us.’
“Mercy, no! There isn’t an Indian within
forty miles of us.”
“You know that dreadful Red Knife was —”
“Pooh!” broke in Arthur, “Old Red Knife
will never take another scalp. He was killed,
three weeks ago, on Pope’s river, only about
twenty miles north of us. If that rascal was
alive, and anywhere within forty miles of us,
I don’t know as I should be so ready to leave
you. But, Ellen, you shall have your say. If
vou wish it. David will remain at home.”
But she did not wish it. She knew that the
men had worked hard, and that they would
like to go to the Rapids, and she told them
they should go. And so the matter was set
tled.
On the following morning, bright and early,
the men had eaten their breakfasts, and were
ready to set forth.
“Remember, my stout little woman,” said
Mr. Henderson to his wife, after he had kiss
ed her, and taken his seat in the wagon upon
the flour bags, “if anybody comes with a grist,
you will let them do their own lifting. And
remember, too, that there’s an extra head of
water on, so you won’t need to raise the gate
more than half way.”
Mrs. Henderson said that she understood all
that, and having once more promised that he
would be at home before dark, her husband
and his two men started off.
Arthur Henderson had called his wife a
“stout little woman.” And so she was. Short
of stature —so short as to appear childish, at
a distance —she was yet so plump with useful
flesh, and so compactly built, that few women
were stronger, and none possessed more en
durance. In short, she was, as her husband
and his friends often said, “a precious little
lump of humanity;” for she was one of the
most blithsome and joyous-hearted creatures
ever transplanted to the frontier, and, at the
same time, one of the most true and resolute.
Touching her bravery, we shall see anon.
Mrs. Henderson had done up her morning’s
work, including the dressing of baby, and
had set Ella and Nannie at their lessons, when
the son of a neighbor who lived little more
than a mile away—their nearest neighbor —
stopped to inquire if his father s horse had
been seen that way.
No. Mrs. Henderson had seen nothing ot
the kind. Had the animal run away?
No. It had been stolen! The horse had been
shut up in the barn the night before, and
this morning it was gone. Hadn’t Mrs. Hen
derson heard how many horses had been stolen
within one or two weeks?
No. She had heard nothing at all about it;
and the boy left her wondering what kind of
horse thieves these might be that were prowl
ing around through that section of country.
From this time the little woman began to
worry, and to wish that her husband had not
left her. If there were horse thieves at hand,
and they should know that Arthur Hender
son’s house and mill were protected only by a
woman and three prattling children, might
they not come that way? And as she sat and
pondered, the impression burned itself deep
ly in upon her mind that those marauders who
robbed by daylight seldom, if ever left wit
nesses to appear against them.
She was worrying thus—it was after noon —
and had about made up her mind to take her
children and go to their nearest neighbor’s,
when little Nannie came running in, clapping
her hands and crying:
“Oh, mamma, mamma, the scarecrows are
coming. Oh, scarecrows can walk! Come and
see.”
Mrs. Henderson cast her eyes out through
the door, which the child had left open, and
saw three Indians coming toward the house
from the direction of the bluff.
At this place the stream by which Mr. Hen
derson had built ran from east to west, and
his buildings were upon the southern bank,
occupying the edge of a broad, level piece of
bottom land, such as in the East would be call
ed an intervale. About two hundred rods from
the house, to the southward, arose an abrupt
bluff, nearly three hundred feet high, the
crown of which was covered with wood, and
from this wood the Indians had evidently
come.
The little woman saw them, and saw that it
was too late to shut them out, for they were
so near the house that had she closed the door,
they could have leaped in at the window be
fore she could have reached the shutters. All
she could do was to let them come, meanwhile
praying to God for the lives of herself and
her children.
Oh, what horrible looking savages they
were! Tall and muscular, more than half
naked, bedaubed with paint in streaks and
dabs, wearing upon their heads simple bands
of red cloth stuck all round with feathers;
in their belts each carrying a long knife and
a hatchet; in their hands each a rifle; while
two of them had bows and quivers at their
backs. The tallest and largest of the three,
and he who came in first, was frightful to look
upon. He was not only painted like his com
panions, but be had a deep gash over his right
eye. and upon his cheek was a plaster of
pitch.
“Ugh!” grunted the demon leader, as Mrs.
Henderson stood pale and trembling by her
little table, supporting herself by its edge,
while Ella and Nannie crouched in a corner
near her, the former explaining to the latter
that those weren’t “scarecrows, but Indians
Ugh ! me know —men all gone—squaw and
babies all alone —man think Red Knife killed!
No kill him right away. Red Knife bleed
muc h—bleed little river full—but he no killed.
Ugh ! we too big for Pale Face —too strong.
We mighty! But Red Knife very hungry now.
White squaw make us eat! Ugh! dont she
die!”
While the savage had been thus speaking,
the little woman had been thinking. At the
first pronunciation of that terrible name—the
name of a Winnebago brave who had shed
more white blood than any other Indian known
—she had come very nigh fainting; but she
remembered the sweet child that lay asleep in
the cradle close at hand, and she at length re
solved that she would bear up while she could,
(Continued on page 14.)
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