It was the same today. Sven replied that he would go and pick some potatoes for them; usually they ate the tubers raw.
He picked up a basket and went toward the potato field, about two hundred yards from the house. The other three men had remained in the shade of the house, but as the Indians now approached, they rose and watched their movements with some concern.
The savages split up into two groups: Three men walked into the cabin while three snooped around the outhouses, apparently looking for food. They caught sight of the small chicken house which Sven had hammered together; inside a setting hen was on her eggs. Startled by their approach the hen rose with a cackle from her nest and ran away. The Indians threw themselves over the nest, grabbed the eggs, and seemed to swallow them, shell and all. Not one single egg was left. The yolks were running down their chins.
Sven Danjelsson had just reached the potato field when he heard the cackle of the frightened hen. He turned and saw the visitors plunder the nest. He had promised them potatoes — why must they now steal from him? Enraged, he shouted to them to leave his property alone. Didn’t they understand that this was a setting hen, ready to hatch chickens! They must. .
These were the settler’s last words in life. Still chewing on the eggshells, one of the Indians lifted his gun, aimed, and fired. The shot hit Sven in the chest. He dropped the basket, fell face forward across a potato furrow and lay still among the broken stalks.
Sven Danjelsson died instantly.
From the cabin wall his father and brother had been calling to him about the plunder of the nest, and Ivar Eriksson had run toward the chicken coop, threatening the robbers. At that moment the first shot cracked, and Danjel Andreasson saw his oldest son drop to the ground.
Until then he had irresolutely watched the Indians’ doings; now he ran to the potato field, Danjel was hastening to his fallen son as fast as his stiff old legs could carry him.
He reached only halfway: The Indians at the coop aimed two shots at him; the first wounded him in the arm, the second hit him in the back and killed him.
Danjel Andreasson survived his son by only a few moments.
Ivar Eriksson was going after the egg thieves and intended to give them a good talking to, but when they started to use their guns he stopped and looked about; what must he do now? Within the span of the same minute he saw father and son fall from the Indians’ bullets and remain lying where they had fallen. What could he do? He was unarmed — all three Indians had guns. If he wished to save his life, there remained for him nothing but flight. But his children — they were inside the cabin.
He turned and rushed toward the house.
The Indians, however, had their eyes on him and fired several shots. Eriksson was hit in the shoulders and neck, and fell a few paces from the corner of the cabin. His wounds bled copiously but he remained conscious.
While this took place outside, three of the Sioux were inside the cabin of the young couple. They walked into the kitchen before any shots had been fired outside, and the young wife, busy at her dishes, had no suspicion of treachery. Ragnhild recoiled a little at the vile smell of their dirty bodies but she was not afraid of them. They asked for some milk. Many times before Indians had asked for milk, it was a drink new to them and they liked it.
The wife went to the cupboard for her earthen crock where she kept the morning milk. The uninvited guests drank in turn from the crock and soon emptied it. She hoped they would leave when they had quenched their thirst.
Just as they handed her the empty crock, the first shot was heard from outside. The young woman cried out in fright and rushed to the window; she had heard the shot that robbed her husband of his life out in the field. As Ragnhild peered through the window, the Indian who had first drunk of her milk lifted his tomahawk and struck her in the head from behind. She sank down to the kitchen floor, lifeless.
Ragnhild Danjelsson followed her husband in death as quickly as Danjel Andreasson had followed his son.
The Indians threw the empty milk crock to the floor, scattering the pieces against the walls. Then they pulled out their scalping knives and cut open the body of the pregnant woman; they pulled the child from her womb and hung it on the fireplace hook.
They were looking for edible things in the cabin. In the next room they came across the Eriksson children, the four-year-old boy and the three-year-old girl, who were playing on the floor. They grabbed the children by the legs and flung them against the wall, crushing their skulls. With their knives they deftly cut the bodies into many pieces.
They stayed in the log house and ate all the food they could lay hands on.
Meanwhile, the three Indians outside had scalped their white victims. But one of them was still alive: Ivar Eriksson, who had fallen near the house, was still conscious. A bullet had entered his neck and come out through his throat. He tried to stop the profuse bleeding by pulling up grass and pushing it into the bullet hole. As the Indians came by and noticed their victim was still alive, they cut his throat from ear to ear.
Ivar Eriksson had used snuff ardently and when his body later was found it was revealed that the Indians had allowed themselves a joke with the snuffbox they had found in his pocket. His thumb and right index finger, which he used while taking snuff, had been cut off and put in the snuffbox. The savages knew that the finger, the thumb, the snuff, and the box belonged together, and they wanted to gather all the pieces in one place.
The Indians had now fulfilled their mission to the Sven Danjelsson cabin: Here were no more whites alive. They set off for the next white homestead.
But it so happened that one life had escaped them. Olof, Danjel’s younger son, had seen his brother and father hit by Indian bullets and fall. He had realized they were dead and had run for his life toward the forest. He was a good runner and managed to hide behind trees before the Indians were aware of it.
But he was afraid the savages would find him in the forest, where he knew of no sure hiding place. Unnoticed he made his way down to the little lake; he waded out into the water until he was in up to his neck. Here he meant to hide. He covered his head with the broad leaves of water lilies that floated on the surface. If he could keep this position, his head hidden by the leaves, no Indian eyes from shore would spy him, however sharp they were. The question was: Could he endure remaining in this place? His mouth was just above the surface, permitting him easy breathing, and the thick leaves protected him against the burning sun, but the water was slimy with silt, hungry mosquitoes swarmed about his head, and leeches crept and crawled onto his body. And his legs felt weaker as they sank into the mire.
But Olof Danjelsson endured, and remained in his hiding place throughout the rest of the day, this whole, long Sunday afternoon. As soon as it grew dark he crept out of the water. He dared not go to his brothers cabin — the Indians might have remained there after the attack. Following unfamiliar paths through the woods he managed to get away from Acton.
After a half night of wandering in the dark he reached a shanty beside Norway Lake, where a Norwegian trapper lived. The shanty’s owner was horrified when he saw the youth come through his door; mud and slime on his face and clothing had dried in cakes until he looked like a black apparition. The trapper must be forgiven if he thought the devil in person was calling on him in his shanty this night.
That was how Danjels younger son saved his life.