It was now being dressed by Col.

Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries received by the defenders.

In all that horrible din of battle, the shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's brave wife had never faltered.

She was here and there; binding the wounds, helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear up under the awful strain.
Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the ladder almost without touching it.

Blood was running down his bare arm and dripping from the ends of his fingers.
"Zane, Martin has been shot," he said hoarsely.