Even before the dawn began to brighten over the dreaded
Highlands which their ruthless enemies were already climbing,
Phebe was flying, bare-headed, across the fields to their nearest
neighbor. The good people heard of the outrage with horror and
indignation. A half-grown lad sprang on the bare back of a young
horse and galloped across the country for a surgeon. A few moments
later the farmer, equipped for chase and battle, dashed away at
headlong pace to alarm the neighborhood. The news sped from house
to house and hamlet to hamlet like fire in prairie grass. The sun
had scarcely risen before a dozen bronzed and stern-browed men
were riding into John Reynolds's farm-yard under the lead of young
Hal June--the best shot that the wars had left in the region. The
surgeon had already arrived, and before he ceased from his labors
he had dressed thirty wounds.
The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was terrible--for
she was eager to return to her father and sick mother. She had not
dreamed of herself as the heroine of the affair, and had not given
any such impression, although more than one had remarked that she
was "a plucky little chick to give the alarm before it was light.
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