He was a half-breed, and had for a wife a
very pretty Cree woman. For some days past, it is said,
that she had been aware that the massacre had been planned;
but uttered no word of warning. Stealthily the blood-thirsty
band approached the dwelling of Dunn, for they knew him
to be a brave man, who would sell his life very dearly.
They were aware that in the Minnesota massacre which
happened some years ago, that he had fought as if his
life were charmed, and escaped with a few trifling wounds.
The doomed man was alone on this terrible day, his wife
having taken her blanket at an early hour and gone abroad
to "talk" with some Cree maidens. Poor Dunn was busy in
the little yard behind his house, putting handles in some
of his farming implements, and did not perceive the
approach of the murderers at all. There were five Indians
in the party, and they crept up to within a dozen paces
of where the unsuspecting man was at his work. Then,
while he whistled a merry tune, they silently raised
their rifles and took aim. The unfortunate man fell,
pierced with all their bullets and made no stir.
Another detachment of the bloodhounds directed their
steps towards the residence of Barnez Fremoine, the
Belgian rancher. He was a tall, magnificently-built man,
and when the savages got in sight of his house they
perceived that he was engaged oiling the axle of his
waggon.
Aided by the shelter of an outhouse, they approached
within twenty yards of this victim; raised their arms
and arrows and fired.
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