Burnt Station

Only one consolation was left us. In the middle of the defile stood an overland station, where we were to get fresh horses. The next stage was twenty miles long. If we were attacked in force, we might manage to run it, almost the whole way, unless the Indians succeeded in shooting one of our team, - the coup they always attempt. I have no doubt we were ambushed at several points in that defile, but our prefect preparation intimidated our foes. . . At last we turned the corner around which the station-house should come in view. A thick, nauseous smoke was curling up from the site of the buildings. We came nearer. Barn, stables, station-house, -- all were a smouldering pile of rafters. We came still nearer. The whole stud of horses -- a dozen or fifteen--lay roasting on the embers. We came close to the spot. There, inextricably mixes with the carcasses of the beasts, lay six men, their brains dashed out, their faces mutilated beyond recognition, their limbs hewn off, -- a frightful holocaust steaming up into our faces.