Scarcely daring to breathe, I lay staring upward and, far above, looking out through what might be a jagged, overhanging mass of timbers, although scarcely discernible, my eyes caught the silver glimmer of a star.
I was alive--alive! Whatever had occurred in that fateful second to deflect that murderous tomahawk, its keen edge had failed to reach me.
And what had occurred?
What could account for my escape; for this silence and darkness; for these dead bodies; for the flight of our assailants?
Indians always removed their dead, yet seemingly this place was a perfect charnel house, heaped with slain.

Surely there could be but one answer--the occurrence of a disaster so complete, so horrifying, that the few who were left alive had thought only of instant flight.

Then it was that the probable truth came to me--that flash and roar; that last impression imprinted on my brain before utter darkness descended 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.