Bryan's Station

We tightened stirrup; buckled rein;
Looked to our saddle-girths again;
Shook hands all round; then mounted.
The gate swung wide; we said, "Good-bye."
No time for talk had Bell and I.
One cried, "God speed!" another, "Fly!"
As out we rode to do or die.
And everv minute counted.

The trail the buffaloes had worn,
Stretched broad before us through the corn
And cane with which it blended.
We knew for miles around the gate
Hid Indian guile and Tory hate.
There was no time to hesitate.
We galloped on. We spurred like Fate,
As morn broke red and splendid.

No rifle cracked. No arrow whirred.
Above us piped a forest bird,
Then two and three together.
We'd reached the woods, and still no shout
Of all the wild Wyandotte rout
And Shawanese had yet rung out;
But now and then an Indian scout
Flashed here and there a feather.

We rode expecting death each stride
From fallen tree or thicket side.
Where, snake-like, they could huddle;
And well we knew that renegade, —
The blood-stained Girty, — only stayed
His hate awhile before he played
His hand — that fiend, who had betrayed
The pioneers of Ruddle.

. . .

Here Ellis heard our news — ^his men
Around him; back we turned again.
And like a band of lions
That leap some lioness to aid,
Of death and torture unafraid.
We charged the Indian ambuscade
And through a storm of bullets made
Our entrance into Bryan's.

And that is all I have to tell.
No more the Huron's hideous yell
Whoops to assault and slaughter.
Perhaps to us some praise is due:
But we are men, accustomed to
Face danger, which is nothing new.
The women did far more for you,
Risking their lives for water.