CHAPTER XII.Joe’s indisposition—His cure—Sneak’s reformation—The pursuit—The captive Indian—Approach to the encampment of the savages—Joe’s illness again—The surprise—The terrific encounter—Rescue of Mary—Capture of the young chief—The return.We return to the white men. The grief of Roughgrove, and of all the party, when it was ascertained beyond a doubt that Mary had been carried off by the savages, was deep and poignant. The aged ferryman sat silent and alone, and would not be comforted, while the rest made the necessary arrangements to pursue the foe. The sled was so altered that blankets, buffalo robes, and a small quantity of food could be taken in it. Bullets were moulded and the guns put in order. Joe was ordered to give the horses water, and place a large quantity of provender within their reach. The hounds were fed and then led back to their kennel, and Glenn announced, after Roughgrove declared his determination to go along, that Ringwood and Jowler alone would be left to guard the premises.“My goodness!” said Joe, when he understood that he was expected to make one of the pursuing party, “I can’t go! My head’s so sore, and aches so bad, I couldn’t go ten miles before I’d have to give up. Let me stay, Mr. Glenn, and take care of the house.”“Do you forget thatMaryis in the hands of the Indians? Would you hesitate even todie, while striving to rescue a poor, innocent, helpless maiden? For shame!” replied Glenn.“I’d spill my heart’s blood for her,” said Joe, “if it would do any good. But you know how I was crippled last night, and I didn’t sleep a bit afterwards, hardly.”“Dod”—commenced Sneak.“Joe,” said Boone, “from the vigorous manner in which you fought the wolves, I am induced to believe that your present scruples are not well founded. We will need every man we can obtain.”“Oh, I wouldn’t mind it at all,” said Joe, “if it wasn’t that you’re a going to start right off now. If I only had a little sleep—”“You shall have it,” said Boone. Both Glenn and Roughgrove looked inquiringly at the speaker. “We will not start to-night,” continued he. “It would be useless. We could not overtake them, and if we did, it would cause them to put Mary to death, that they might escape our vengeance the more easily. I have duly considered the matter. We must rest here to-night, and rise refreshed in the morning. We will then set out on their trail, and I solemnly pledge my word never to return without bringing the poor child back unharmed.”“Ihopemy head’ll be well by morning,” said Joe.“Iknowit will be well enough,” said Glenn; “so you need entertain no hope of being left behind.”“Now, Sneak, a word with you,” said Boone. “I think you would do almostany thingfor my sake—”“If I wouldn’t, I wish I may be dod—”“Stop!” continued Boone, interrupting him.“Jest ax me to cut off my little finger,” said Sneak, “and if I don’t do it, I wish I may be dod—”“Stop!” again interposed Boone. “My first request is one that poorMaryasked me to make. I know it will be a severe trial.”“Name it,” cried Sneak, “and if it’s to job out one of my eyes, dod rot me if I don’t do it!”“Hearme,” continued Boone; “she desired me to ask you not to use that ugly worddod-rotany more.”“Hay!” exclaimed Sneak, his eyes dilating, and his mouth falling wide open.“I know it will be a hard matter,” said Boone; “but Mary thinks you have a good and brave heart, and she says you are the only one among us that uses bad words.”“I’d go my death for that gal, or any other female woman in the settlement, any day of my life. And as she wants me to swaller them words, that was born with me, dod—I mean, I wish I may be—indeed, I’ll be starved to death if I don’t do it! only when I’m raven mad at something, and then I can’t help it.”“Very well,” said Boone. “Now I have a request of my own to make.”“Sing it out! dod—no—nothing! I didn’t say it—but I’lldowhat you want me to,” said Sneak.“I thinkyouwill not suffer for the want of sleep,” continued Boone; “and I wish you to go out and get as many of the neighbours to join us as possible. You can go to three or four houses by midnight, sleep a little, and meet us here, or in the prairie, in the morning.”“I shall cut stick—if I don’t I wish I may be do—I—indeedI will!” and before he ceased speaking he was rushing through the gate.The little party then took a hasty repast, and, throwing themselves on the couches, endeavoured to sleep. Boone and Joe were soon wrapped in slumber; but neither Roughgrove nor Glenn, for a great length of time, could find repose.“Strive to be composed, my friend; all will be well,” said Glenn, when the disconsolate old ferryman gave vent to numerous heart-rending sighs.“If you only knew”—commenced Roughgrove, in reply, and the words he was about to utter died upon his lips.“I can well imagine the extent of your bereavement,” said Glenn; “but at the same time I am sure she will be returned to you unharmed.”“It was not Mary alone I alluded to,” said Roughgrove; “but to lose two children—all that we had—so cruelly—Oh! may we all meet in heaven!”“Then you hadtwochildren, and lost them both? I never heard the other mentioned,” said Glenn, now evincing a most lively interest in the subject.“No—it was my request that it should never be mentioned. Mary and he were twins—only six years old, when he was lost. I wished Mary to forget entirely that she ever had a brother—it could do no good for her to know it, and would distress her. But now, Heavenly Father! both are gone!” added the old man, in tears.“Was he, too, taken by the Indians? the Osages?” inquired Glenn.“No,” said Roughgrove. “He had been playing on the margin of the river, and we were compelled to believe that he fell in the stream and was drowned—at a time when no eye was upon him. Mary was near at hand, but she did not see him fall, nor could she tell how he disappeared. His poor mother believed that an Indian stole him away. But the only Indians then in the neighbourhood were the Pawnees, and they were at that time friendly. He was surely drowned. If the Pawnees had taken him, they would soon have proposed a ransom. Yet his mother continually charged them with the deed. In her dreams she ever saw him among the savages. In all her thoughts it was the same. She pined away—she never knew a happy moment afterwards—and when she died, the same belief was uttered in her last words. I am now alone!” The old man covered his face with his hands, and sobbed audibly.“Bear with patience and resignation,” said Glenn, “the dispensations of an all-wise Providence. All may yet be well. The son, whom you thought lost forever, may be living, and possibly reclaimed, and Mary shall be restored, if human efforts can accomplish it. Cheer up. Many a happy day may still be reserved for you.”“Oh! my dear young friend! if you but knewall!” said Roughgrove.“Do I not now know all?” asked Glenn.“No,” replied the old man; “but the rest must remain a secret—it should, perhaps, be buried in my breast forever! I will now strive to sleep.” They ceased to speak, and silence reigned till morning.Joe was roused from his couch in the morning by a tremendous “Ya-hoy!” outside of the inclosure.“Run and open the gate,” said Glenn.“I’d rather not,” said Joe, rubbing his eyes.“Why?” asked Glenn.“Hang it, it’s the Indians again!” replied Joe, seizing his musket.“It is Sneak and his men,” observed Boone, when another shout was uttered.“Hang me, if I don’t have a peep at ’em first, anyhow,” said Joe, approaching the gate cautiously, and peering through a small crevice.“Ya-hoo!” repeated those without.“Who are you? why don’t you speak out?” said Joe, still unable to see their faces.“Dod—I mean—plague take it! Joe, is Mr. Boone standing there with you?” asked Sneak.“No,” replied Joe, opening the gate.“Then dodrotyour hide! why didn’t you let us in?” said Sneak, rushing through the gate, and followed by five of the neighbours.“Why, Sneak, how could I tell that you wern’t Indians?” said Joe.“You be dod—never mind!” continued Sneak, shaking his head, and passing to where Boone stood, near the house.“I am glad to see you all,” said Boone, extending his hand to each of the hardy pioneers. “But let us not waste a moment’s time. I see you are all armed. Seize hold of the sled-rope, and let us be off.” The command was instantly obeyed, and the party were soon passing out of the inclosure. The gate was scarce fastened before another “Ya-hoo!” came from the valley below, and a moment after they were joined by Col. Cooper and Dan. The other oarsman had been sent up the river for reinforcements, and Col. Cooper and Dan having heard the great explosion, finally resolved to cross over the river, and not await the arrival of the trappers.The party now amounted to twelve, and no time was lost in commencing the march, or rather the chase; for when they reached the prairie and found the trail of the snow-canoe, their progress equalled that of the savages. But they had not gone far before Joe was taken suddenly ill, and begged to be permitted to return.“I declare I can hardly hold my head up!” said he still holding on to the rope, and keeping pace with the rest, though his head hung down.“Possomin’—dod—I mean he’s jest ‘possomin’,” said Sneak.“No indeed I ain’t—plague it, don’tyousay any thing, Sneak,” Joe, added, in an undertone.“I am something of a physician,” said Boone, whose quick ear had caught the words addressed to Sneak. “Let me feel your pulse,” he added, ordering the party to halt, and turning to Joe, whose wrist he seized.“I feel something better,” said Joe, alarmed at the mysterious and severe expression of Boone’s face.“I hope you will be entirely well intwo minutes,” said Boone; “and then it will not be necessary to apply my remedy.”“I’m about well now,” said Joe: “I think I can go ahead.”“I believe your pulse is good now; and I think you will hardly have another attack to-day. If you do, just let me know it.”“Oh, now I feel perfectly well,” responded Joe; and, seizing the rope, they were all soon again flying along on the trail of the savages.A little before noon, while casting his eyes along the dim horizon in advance, Sneak abruptly paused, causing the rest to do likewise, and exclaimed, “Dod rot it.”“What’s the matter, Sneak? Remember the promise you made,” said Boone.“Oh,” replied Sneak, “in sich an extronary case as this, I can’t help saying that word yet awhile. But look yander!” he continued, pointing to a slight eminence a great distance in advance.“True!” said Boone, “that is an Indian—but it is the only one hereabouts.”“He is coming to meet us,” said Glenn.“Yes! my goodness! he’s looking at us now,” cried Joe, retreating a few steps.“If there are more of them watching us,” said Col. Cooper, “they are somewhere in our rear.”“Oh! we’re surrounded!” cried Joe, leaping forward again.“Come on,” said Boone; “we’ll soon learn what he wants with us.”When they were within a few hundred yards of the solitary Indian, they again halted, and Joe ran to the sled and seized his musket, which he cocked and threw up to his shoulder.“Take down your gun!” said Boone; “that is the Indian whose life we spared. I was not deceived in his integrity. He was not the one that stole away Mary. I doubt not he brings intelligence of her.”“God grant she may still be unharmed!” said Roughgrove, advancing to meet the Indian, who, being now within gunshot, raised his small white flag. “Tell me! tell me all about her!” exclaimed Roughgrove, in the Osage language, when he met the Indian. When the Indian informed him of the condition of Mary, the old man could not repress his raptures, his gratitude, or his tears. “She’s safe! she’s safe! Heaven be praised!” he exclaimed, turning to his companions, who now came up, and experienced almost as much joy at the announcement as himself.“Hang me, if you ain’t a right clever fellow,” said Joe, shaking the Indian’s hand quite heartily. “Now,” he continued, when all the particulars of Mary’s escape were made known, “there won’t be any use in fighting; we can just get Miss Mary out of the snow, and then go home again.”“You don’t know—keep your mouth shet—dod—,” said Sneak, suppressing the last word.“We are not sure of that,” said Boone; “on the contrary, I think it is very probable we shall have fighting yet. When the war-party discover the deception, (as they must have done ere this,) they will retrace their steps. If it was early in the day when they ascertained that the captive had escaped, we may expect to see them very soon. If it was late, we will find them in the grove where they encamped. In either event we must expect to fight—and fight hard too—for they outnumber us considerably.”Joe sighed, but said nothing.“Are you getting ill again?” inquired Boone.“No—I was only blowing—I got a little tired,” said Joe, in scarce articulate tones.“And I feel weak—very weak—but it is with joy!” said Roughgrove.“And I have observed it, too,” said Boone. “Get in the sled; we will pull you along till your strength returns.”“I will be able to use my gun when I meet the foe,” said the old man, getting into the sled.The party set forward again, guided by the Indian, and in high spirits. The consciousness that Mary was in safety removed a weight from the breasts of all; and, as they ran along, many a light jest and pleasant repartee lessened the weariness of the march. Even Joe smiled once or twice when Boone, in a mock heroic manner alluded to his exploits among the wolves.“Blast me,” said Joe, when Sneak mentioned a few cases of equivocal courage as an offset to Boone’s compliments, “blast me, if I haven’t killed more Indians than any of you, since I have been in this plagued country.”“True—that is, your musket has,” said Boone.“Joe can fight sometimes,” said Glenn, smiling.“I’ll be hanged if I haven’t always fought, when there was any fighting going on,” said Joe, reproachfully.“Yes, and he’ll fight again, as manfully as any of us,” said Boone.“Dod—why, what are you holding back for so hard?” said Sneak, remarking that Joe at that instant seemed to be much excited, and, instead of going forward, actually brought the whole party to a model ate walk by his counter exertion.“What do you mean?” asked Glenn.“Are you going to be ill?” asked Boone.“No, goodness, no! Only listen to me a minute. An idea struck me, which I thought it was my duty to tell. I thought this Indian might be deceiving us. Suppose he leads us right into an ambush when we’re talking and laughing, and thinking there’s no danger.“Dod—you’re a cowardly fool!” said Sneak.“I have likewise a remedy for interruptions—I advise rot to stop again,” said Boone, when Joe once more started forward.Just as night was setting in, the party came in sight of the grove where Mary was concealed. They slackened their pace and drew near the dark woods quite cautiously. When they entered the edge of the grove, they heard the war-party utter the yell which had awakened Mary. It was fully understood by Boone, and the friendly Indian assured them from the sound, that the Osages had just returned, and were at that moment leaving the encampment on his trail. But he stated that they could not find the pale-faced maiden. And he suggested to the whites a plan of attack, which was to station themselves near the place where he had emerged from the grove, after hiding Mary; so that when they followed on his trail they could thus be surprised without difficulty. This advice was adopted by Boone. The Indian then asked permission to depart, saying he had paid the white men for sparing his life.“Oh no!” cried Joe, when Roughgrove interpreted the Indian’s request, “keep him as a hostage—he may be cheating us.”“I do not see the impropriety of Joe’s remark this time,” said Glenn.“Ask him where he will go, if we suffer him to depart,” said Boone. To Roughgrove’s interrogation, the Indian made a passionate reply. He said the white men were liars. They were now quits. Still the white men were not satisfied. He had risked his life (and would probably be tortured) to pay back the white men’s kindness. But they would not believe his words. He was willing to die now. The white men might shoot him.. He would as willingly die as live. If suffered to depart, it was his intention to steal his squaw away from the tribe, and join the Pawnees. He would never be an Osage again.“Go!” said Boone, perceiving by a ray of moonlight that reached the Indian’s face through the clustering branches of the trees above, that he was in tears. The savage, without speaking another word, leaped out into the prairie, and from the circuitous direction he pursued, it was manifest that nothing could be further from his desire than to fall in with the war-party.Boone directed the sled to be abandoned, and, obedient to his will, the party entered a small covert in the immediate vicinity of the spot where their guide said he had emerged from the grove on his return to meet the whites. Here the party long remained esconced, silent and listening, and expecting every moment to see the foe. At length Boone grew impatient, and concluding they would encamp that night under the spreading tree, (the locality of which he was familiar with,) he resolved to advance and surprise them. He was strengthened in this determination by the repeated and painful surmises of Roughgrove respecting Mary’s piteous condition. Glenn, and the rest, with perhaps one or two exceptions, likewise seemed disposed to make an instantaneous termination of the torturing suspense respecting the fate of the poor girl.Boone and Sneak led the way. The party were compelled to proceed with the utmost caution. Sometimes they were forced to crawl many paces on their hands and knees under the pendent snow-covered bushes. They drew near the spreading tree. A fire was burning under it, the flickering rays of which could be occasionally seen glimmering through the branches. A stick was heard to break a little distance on one side, and Boone and Sneak sank down on the snow, and whispered to the rest to follow their example. It was done without a repetition of the order. Joe was the hindmost of all, but after lying a few minutes in silence, he crept softly forward, trembling all the while. When he reached the side of Boone, the aged woodman did not chide him, but simply pointed his finger towards a small decayed log a few paces distant. Joe looked but a moment, and then pulling his hat over his eyes, laid down flat on his face, in silence and submission. An Indian was seated on the log, and very composedly cutting off the dry bark with his tomahawk. Once or twice he paused and remained a moment in a listening attitude. But probably thinking the sounds he heard (if he heard any) proceeded from some comrade like himself in quest of fuel, he continued to cut away, until an armful was obtained, and then very deliberately arose and walked with an almost noiseless step to the fire, which was not more than fifty yards distant. Boone rose softly and whispered the rest to follow. He was promptly obeyed by all except Joe.“Come, sir! prepare your musket to fire,” said Boone, stooping down to Joe, who still remained apparently frozen to the snow-crust.“Oh! I’m so sick!” replied Joe.“If you do not keep with us, you will lose your scalp to a certainty,” said Boone. Joe was well in a second. The party were now about midway between the fallen trunk where Mary was concealed, and the great encampment-tree. Boone rose erect for an instant, and beheld the former, and the single Indian (the chief) who was there. One of the Indians again started out from the fire, in the direction of the whites for more fuel. Boone once more passed the word for his little band to lie down. The tall savage came within a few feet of them. His tomahawk accidentally fell from his hand, and in his endeavour to catch it, he knocked it within a few feet of Sneak’s head. He stepped carelessly aside, and stooped down for it. A strangling and gushing sound was heard, and falling prostrate, he died without a groan. Sneak had nearly severed his head from his body at one blow with his hunting-knife.At this juncture Mary sprang from her hiding-place. Her voice reached the ears of her father, but before he could run to her assistance, the chiefs loud tones rang through the forest. Boone and the rest sprang forward, and fired upon the savages under the spreading tree. At the second discharge the Indians gave way, and while Col. Cooper, the oarsmen, and the neighbours that had joined the party in the morning, pursued the flying foe, Boone and the remainder ran towards the fallen trunk where Mary had been concealed, but approaching in different directions. Glenn was the first to rush upon the chief, and it was his ball that whizzed so near the Indian’s head when he bore away the shrieking maiden. The rest only fired in the direction of the log, not thinking that Mary had left her covert. They soon met at the fallen tree, under which was the pit, all except Glenn, who sprang forward in pursuit of the chief, and Sneak, who had made a wide circuit for the purpose of reaching the scene of action from an opposite direction, entirely regardless of the danger of being shot by his friends.“She’s gone! she’s gone!” exclaimed Roughgrove, looking aghast at the vacated pit under the fallen trunk. “But we will have her yet,” said Boone, as he heard Glenn discharge a pistol a few paces apart in the bushes. The report was followed by a yell, not from the chief, but Sneak, and the next moment the rifle of the latter was likewise heard. Still the Indian was not dispatched, for the instant afterwards his tomahawk, which was hurled without effect, came sailing over the bushes, and penetrated a tree hard by, some fifteen or twenty feet above the earth, where it entered the wood with such force that it remained firmly fixed. Now succeeded a struggle—a violent blow was heard—the fall of the Indian, and all was comparatively still. A minute afterwards, Sneak emerged from the thicket, bearing the inanimate body of Mary in his arms, and followed by Glenn.“Is she dead? Oh, she’s dead!” cried Roughgrove, snatching her from the arms of Sneak.“She has only fainted!” exclaimed Glenn, examining the body of the pale girl, and finding no wounds.“She is recovering!” said Boone, feeling her pulse.“God be praised!” exclaimed Roughgrove, when returning animation was manifest.“Oh! I know you won’t kill me! For pity’s sake spare me!” said Mary.“It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.It is your father, my poor child!“It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.“It is! it is!” cried the happy girl, clinging rapturously to the old man’s neck, and then, seizing the hands of the rest, she seemed to be half wild with delight.“Dod—I—I mean that none of the black noctilerous savages shall ever hurt you as long as Sneak lives,” said Sneak, looking down at his gun, which had been broken off at the breech.“How did you break that?” asked Boone.“I broke it over the yaller feller’s head,” said he, “and I’d do it agin, before he should hurt Miss Mary, if itisthe only one I’ve got.”“I have an extra rifle at home,” said Glenn, “which shall be yours, as a reward for your gallant conduct.”“Where is the chief? Is he dead?” asked Mary.“If he ain’t dead, his head’s harder than my gun, that’s all,” said Sneak.“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Mary.“Why, my child?” asked Roughgrove.“Because,” said Mary, “he’s a good-hearted Indian, and never would have harmed me. When he heard you coming, and raised his tomahawk to kill me, I looked in his face, and he could not strike, for there were tears in his eyes! I know he never would have thought of killing me, when calm, for he treated me very kindly before I escaped.”“Maybe he ain’t dead—I’ll go and see,” said Sneak, repairing to the late scene of conflict. When he arrived he found the young chief sitting upright, having been only stunned; a gold band that confined his head-dress prevented the blow from fracturing his skull. He was now unresisting and sullen. Sneak made him rise up, and after binding his hands behind him with a strong cord, led him forth.“You did not intend to kill me, did you?” asked Mary, in soothing tones. The chief regarded her not, but looked steadfastly downwards.“He don’t understand you, Mary,” said Boone.“Oh, yes he does,” continued Mary; “and he can speak our language, too, for I heard him talking, and thought it was you, and that was the reason why I came out of the pit.” Roughgrove addressed him in his own language, but with no better success. The captured chief resolved not to plead for his life. He would make no reply whatever to their questions, but still gazed downwards in reckless sullenness.“What shall we do with him?” asked Glenn, when the rest of the party, (with the exception of Joe,) who had chased the savages far away, came up and stared at the prisoner.“Let us set him free!” said Roughgrove.“Kill him!” cried several.“No!” exclaimed Mary, “what doyousay, Mr. Boone?”“It would be useless to kill him,” said Boone.“Let him go, then,” said Glenn.“No!” said Boone.“Why?” asked Glenn.“Because,” replied Boone, “he is a chief, and we may make him the means of securing the settlement against future attacks. We will confine him in your garrison as a hostage, and send some friendly Indian to the Osages announcing his capture, and informing them that his life will be spared provided they keep away from the settlement for a certain length of time, at the expiration of which he shall be restored to them.”“I am glad of that,” said Mary, “for I don’t believe he is a bad Indian. We will treat him kindly, and then I think he will always be our friend.”“Take him along, and bind him fast in the sled, Sneak,” said Boone; “but see that you do not injure him in the least.”“I will. Oh, me and him are purty good friends now. Gee-whoa-haw,” continued he, taking hold of the string behind, and endeavouring to drive the silent captive like an ox. The young chief whirled round indignantly, and with such force as to send Sneak sprawling several paces to one side. He rose amid the laughter that ensued, and remembering the words of Boone, conducted his prisoner away in a more respectful manner.“Where’s Joe?” at length inquired Glenn, seeing that he alone was missing.“Oh! I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Mary.“If he is, I shall mourn his loss many a day,” said Glenn; “for with all his defects, I would not be without him for the world.”“Give yourself no uneasiness,” said Boone; “for he is as well at this moment as you or I.”“I hope so,” said Glenn; “but I have not seen him since we first fired at the Indians.”“Let us repair to that spot, and there we will find him, for I saw him fall down when he discharged his musket. I venture to say he has not moved an inch since.”The party repaired to the place mentioned, and there they found him, sure enough, lying quite still on his face beside the Indian that Sneak had killed.“Heisdead!” said Glenn, after calling to him and receiving no answer.“We’ll soon see,” said Boone, turning him over on his back. “I will open a vein in his arm.”“Bring a torch from the fire,” said Col. Cooper to one of the men.“Oh!” sighed Joe, lifting his hands to his head.“I thought he would soon come to life again,” said Boone, examining his face with the torch that was brought, and then laughing outright. The spectacle was ludicrous in the extreme. Joe was besmeared with blood, and, when he opened his eyes and stared at the flaming light, he resembled some sanguinary demon.“Where in the world did all this blood come from?” exclaimed Glenn.“I’m recovered now,” said Joe, rising up and assuming an air of importance.“What have you been doing?” asked Glenn.“I’ve been doing as much as any of you, I’ll be bound,” replied Joe, very gravely.“Well, what have you done?” repeated Glenn.“I’ve been fighting the last half hour, as hard as anybody ever fought in this world. Only look at the stabs in that Indian!” said he, pointing to the savage.“Why, you scoundrel! Sneak killed this Indian,” said Glenn.“Sneak thought he did,” replied Joe, “but he only wounded him. After a while he got up and clinched me by the throat, and we had it over and over on the snow, till we both got so exhausted we couldn’t do any thing. When we rested, we went at it again, and it hasn’t been five minutes since I stuck my knife in his breast. When he fell, I stuck him four or five times, and then fainted myself.”“Here is a wound in the savage’s breast,” said Glenn.“But here’s another in the throat,” said Boone, showing where the arteries had been severed by Sneak.“Joe,” said Glenn, “you must abandon this habit of lying, if indeed it is not a portion of your nature.”“Hang it all, I ain’t lying—I know Sneak did cut his throat, but he didn’t cut it deep—I cut it deeper, myself, after the Indian got up again!” persisted he.The party hastily glanced at the four or five dead savages under the trees, that had fallen victims to their fire, and then returned to the sled. Mary was placed beside the captive chief, and they set out on their return, well satisfied with the result of the expedition.
Joe’s indisposition—His cure—Sneak’s reformation—The pursuit—The captive Indian—Approach to the encampment of the savages—Joe’s illness again—The surprise—The terrific encounter—Rescue of Mary—Capture of the young chief—The return.
We return to the white men. The grief of Roughgrove, and of all the party, when it was ascertained beyond a doubt that Mary had been carried off by the savages, was deep and poignant. The aged ferryman sat silent and alone, and would not be comforted, while the rest made the necessary arrangements to pursue the foe. The sled was so altered that blankets, buffalo robes, and a small quantity of food could be taken in it. Bullets were moulded and the guns put in order. Joe was ordered to give the horses water, and place a large quantity of provender within their reach. The hounds were fed and then led back to their kennel, and Glenn announced, after Roughgrove declared his determination to go along, that Ringwood and Jowler alone would be left to guard the premises.
“My goodness!” said Joe, when he understood that he was expected to make one of the pursuing party, “I can’t go! My head’s so sore, and aches so bad, I couldn’t go ten miles before I’d have to give up. Let me stay, Mr. Glenn, and take care of the house.”
“Do you forget thatMaryis in the hands of the Indians? Would you hesitate even todie, while striving to rescue a poor, innocent, helpless maiden? For shame!” replied Glenn.
“I’d spill my heart’s blood for her,” said Joe, “if it would do any good. But you know how I was crippled last night, and I didn’t sleep a bit afterwards, hardly.”
“Dod”—commenced Sneak.
“Joe,” said Boone, “from the vigorous manner in which you fought the wolves, I am induced to believe that your present scruples are not well founded. We will need every man we can obtain.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind it at all,” said Joe, “if it wasn’t that you’re a going to start right off now. If I only had a little sleep—”
“You shall have it,” said Boone. Both Glenn and Roughgrove looked inquiringly at the speaker. “We will not start to-night,” continued he. “It would be useless. We could not overtake them, and if we did, it would cause them to put Mary to death, that they might escape our vengeance the more easily. I have duly considered the matter. We must rest here to-night, and rise refreshed in the morning. We will then set out on their trail, and I solemnly pledge my word never to return without bringing the poor child back unharmed.”
“Ihopemy head’ll be well by morning,” said Joe.
“Iknowit will be well enough,” said Glenn; “so you need entertain no hope of being left behind.”
“Now, Sneak, a word with you,” said Boone. “I think you would do almostany thingfor my sake—”
“If I wouldn’t, I wish I may be dod—”
“Stop!” continued Boone, interrupting him.
“Jest ax me to cut off my little finger,” said Sneak, “and if I don’t do it, I wish I may be dod—”
“Stop!” again interposed Boone. “My first request is one that poorMaryasked me to make. I know it will be a severe trial.”
“Name it,” cried Sneak, “and if it’s to job out one of my eyes, dod rot me if I don’t do it!”
“Hearme,” continued Boone; “she desired me to ask you not to use that ugly worddod-rotany more.”
“Hay!” exclaimed Sneak, his eyes dilating, and his mouth falling wide open.
“I know it will be a hard matter,” said Boone; “but Mary thinks you have a good and brave heart, and she says you are the only one among us that uses bad words.”
“I’d go my death for that gal, or any other female woman in the settlement, any day of my life. And as she wants me to swaller them words, that was born with me, dod—I mean, I wish I may be—indeed, I’ll be starved to death if I don’t do it! only when I’m raven mad at something, and then I can’t help it.”
“Very well,” said Boone. “Now I have a request of my own to make.”
“Sing it out! dod—no—nothing! I didn’t say it—but I’lldowhat you want me to,” said Sneak.
“I thinkyouwill not suffer for the want of sleep,” continued Boone; “and I wish you to go out and get as many of the neighbours to join us as possible. You can go to three or four houses by midnight, sleep a little, and meet us here, or in the prairie, in the morning.”
“I shall cut stick—if I don’t I wish I may be do—I—indeedI will!” and before he ceased speaking he was rushing through the gate.
The little party then took a hasty repast, and, throwing themselves on the couches, endeavoured to sleep. Boone and Joe were soon wrapped in slumber; but neither Roughgrove nor Glenn, for a great length of time, could find repose.
“Strive to be composed, my friend; all will be well,” said Glenn, when the disconsolate old ferryman gave vent to numerous heart-rending sighs.
“If you only knew”—commenced Roughgrove, in reply, and the words he was about to utter died upon his lips.
“I can well imagine the extent of your bereavement,” said Glenn; “but at the same time I am sure she will be returned to you unharmed.”
“It was not Mary alone I alluded to,” said Roughgrove; “but to lose two children—all that we had—so cruelly—Oh! may we all meet in heaven!”
“Then you hadtwochildren, and lost them both? I never heard the other mentioned,” said Glenn, now evincing a most lively interest in the subject.
“No—it was my request that it should never be mentioned. Mary and he were twins—only six years old, when he was lost. I wished Mary to forget entirely that she ever had a brother—it could do no good for her to know it, and would distress her. But now, Heavenly Father! both are gone!” added the old man, in tears.
“Was he, too, taken by the Indians? the Osages?” inquired Glenn.
“No,” said Roughgrove. “He had been playing on the margin of the river, and we were compelled to believe that he fell in the stream and was drowned—at a time when no eye was upon him. Mary was near at hand, but she did not see him fall, nor could she tell how he disappeared. His poor mother believed that an Indian stole him away. But the only Indians then in the neighbourhood were the Pawnees, and they were at that time friendly. He was surely drowned. If the Pawnees had taken him, they would soon have proposed a ransom. Yet his mother continually charged them with the deed. In her dreams she ever saw him among the savages. In all her thoughts it was the same. She pined away—she never knew a happy moment afterwards—and when she died, the same belief was uttered in her last words. I am now alone!” The old man covered his face with his hands, and sobbed audibly.
“Bear with patience and resignation,” said Glenn, “the dispensations of an all-wise Providence. All may yet be well. The son, whom you thought lost forever, may be living, and possibly reclaimed, and Mary shall be restored, if human efforts can accomplish it. Cheer up. Many a happy day may still be reserved for you.”
“Oh! my dear young friend! if you but knewall!” said Roughgrove.
“Do I not now know all?” asked Glenn.
“No,” replied the old man; “but the rest must remain a secret—it should, perhaps, be buried in my breast forever! I will now strive to sleep.” They ceased to speak, and silence reigned till morning.
Joe was roused from his couch in the morning by a tremendous “Ya-hoy!” outside of the inclosure.
“Run and open the gate,” said Glenn.
“I’d rather not,” said Joe, rubbing his eyes.
“Why?” asked Glenn.
“Hang it, it’s the Indians again!” replied Joe, seizing his musket.
“It is Sneak and his men,” observed Boone, when another shout was uttered.
“Hang me, if I don’t have a peep at ’em first, anyhow,” said Joe, approaching the gate cautiously, and peering through a small crevice.
“Ya-hoo!” repeated those without.
“Who are you? why don’t you speak out?” said Joe, still unable to see their faces.
“Dod—I mean—plague take it! Joe, is Mr. Boone standing there with you?” asked Sneak.
“No,” replied Joe, opening the gate.
“Then dodrotyour hide! why didn’t you let us in?” said Sneak, rushing through the gate, and followed by five of the neighbours.
“Why, Sneak, how could I tell that you wern’t Indians?” said Joe.
“You be dod—never mind!” continued Sneak, shaking his head, and passing to where Boone stood, near the house.
“I am glad to see you all,” said Boone, extending his hand to each of the hardy pioneers. “But let us not waste a moment’s time. I see you are all armed. Seize hold of the sled-rope, and let us be off.” The command was instantly obeyed, and the party were soon passing out of the inclosure. The gate was scarce fastened before another “Ya-hoo!” came from the valley below, and a moment after they were joined by Col. Cooper and Dan. The other oarsman had been sent up the river for reinforcements, and Col. Cooper and Dan having heard the great explosion, finally resolved to cross over the river, and not await the arrival of the trappers.
The party now amounted to twelve, and no time was lost in commencing the march, or rather the chase; for when they reached the prairie and found the trail of the snow-canoe, their progress equalled that of the savages. But they had not gone far before Joe was taken suddenly ill, and begged to be permitted to return.
“I declare I can hardly hold my head up!” said he still holding on to the rope, and keeping pace with the rest, though his head hung down.
“Possomin’—dod—I mean he’s jest ‘possomin’,” said Sneak.
“No indeed I ain’t—plague it, don’tyousay any thing, Sneak,” Joe, added, in an undertone.
“I am something of a physician,” said Boone, whose quick ear had caught the words addressed to Sneak. “Let me feel your pulse,” he added, ordering the party to halt, and turning to Joe, whose wrist he seized.
“I feel something better,” said Joe, alarmed at the mysterious and severe expression of Boone’s face.
“I hope you will be entirely well intwo minutes,” said Boone; “and then it will not be necessary to apply my remedy.”
“I’m about well now,” said Joe: “I think I can go ahead.”
“I believe your pulse is good now; and I think you will hardly have another attack to-day. If you do, just let me know it.”
“Oh, now I feel perfectly well,” responded Joe; and, seizing the rope, they were all soon again flying along on the trail of the savages.
A little before noon, while casting his eyes along the dim horizon in advance, Sneak abruptly paused, causing the rest to do likewise, and exclaimed, “Dod rot it.”
“What’s the matter, Sneak? Remember the promise you made,” said Boone.
“Oh,” replied Sneak, “in sich an extronary case as this, I can’t help saying that word yet awhile. But look yander!” he continued, pointing to a slight eminence a great distance in advance.
“True!” said Boone, “that is an Indian—but it is the only one hereabouts.”
“He is coming to meet us,” said Glenn.
“Yes! my goodness! he’s looking at us now,” cried Joe, retreating a few steps.
“If there are more of them watching us,” said Col. Cooper, “they are somewhere in our rear.”
“Oh! we’re surrounded!” cried Joe, leaping forward again.
“Come on,” said Boone; “we’ll soon learn what he wants with us.”
When they were within a few hundred yards of the solitary Indian, they again halted, and Joe ran to the sled and seized his musket, which he cocked and threw up to his shoulder.
“Take down your gun!” said Boone; “that is the Indian whose life we spared. I was not deceived in his integrity. He was not the one that stole away Mary. I doubt not he brings intelligence of her.”
“God grant she may still be unharmed!” said Roughgrove, advancing to meet the Indian, who, being now within gunshot, raised his small white flag. “Tell me! tell me all about her!” exclaimed Roughgrove, in the Osage language, when he met the Indian. When the Indian informed him of the condition of Mary, the old man could not repress his raptures, his gratitude, or his tears. “She’s safe! she’s safe! Heaven be praised!” he exclaimed, turning to his companions, who now came up, and experienced almost as much joy at the announcement as himself.
“Hang me, if you ain’t a right clever fellow,” said Joe, shaking the Indian’s hand quite heartily. “Now,” he continued, when all the particulars of Mary’s escape were made known, “there won’t be any use in fighting; we can just get Miss Mary out of the snow, and then go home again.”
“You don’t know—keep your mouth shet—dod—,” said Sneak, suppressing the last word.
“We are not sure of that,” said Boone; “on the contrary, I think it is very probable we shall have fighting yet. When the war-party discover the deception, (as they must have done ere this,) they will retrace their steps. If it was early in the day when they ascertained that the captive had escaped, we may expect to see them very soon. If it was late, we will find them in the grove where they encamped. In either event we must expect to fight—and fight hard too—for they outnumber us considerably.”
Joe sighed, but said nothing.
“Are you getting ill again?” inquired Boone.
“No—I was only blowing—I got a little tired,” said Joe, in scarce articulate tones.
“And I feel weak—very weak—but it is with joy!” said Roughgrove.
“And I have observed it, too,” said Boone. “Get in the sled; we will pull you along till your strength returns.”
“I will be able to use my gun when I meet the foe,” said the old man, getting into the sled.
The party set forward again, guided by the Indian, and in high spirits. The consciousness that Mary was in safety removed a weight from the breasts of all; and, as they ran along, many a light jest and pleasant repartee lessened the weariness of the march. Even Joe smiled once or twice when Boone, in a mock heroic manner alluded to his exploits among the wolves.
“Blast me,” said Joe, when Sneak mentioned a few cases of equivocal courage as an offset to Boone’s compliments, “blast me, if I haven’t killed more Indians than any of you, since I have been in this plagued country.”
“True—that is, your musket has,” said Boone.
“Joe can fight sometimes,” said Glenn, smiling.
“I’ll be hanged if I haven’t always fought, when there was any fighting going on,” said Joe, reproachfully.
“Yes, and he’ll fight again, as manfully as any of us,” said Boone.
“Dod—why, what are you holding back for so hard?” said Sneak, remarking that Joe at that instant seemed to be much excited, and, instead of going forward, actually brought the whole party to a model ate walk by his counter exertion.
“What do you mean?” asked Glenn.
“Are you going to be ill?” asked Boone.
“No, goodness, no! Only listen to me a minute. An idea struck me, which I thought it was my duty to tell. I thought this Indian might be deceiving us. Suppose he leads us right into an ambush when we’re talking and laughing, and thinking there’s no danger.
“Dod—you’re a cowardly fool!” said Sneak.
“I have likewise a remedy for interruptions—I advise rot to stop again,” said Boone, when Joe once more started forward.
Just as night was setting in, the party came in sight of the grove where Mary was concealed. They slackened their pace and drew near the dark woods quite cautiously. When they entered the edge of the grove, they heard the war-party utter the yell which had awakened Mary. It was fully understood by Boone, and the friendly Indian assured them from the sound, that the Osages had just returned, and were at that moment leaving the encampment on his trail. But he stated that they could not find the pale-faced maiden. And he suggested to the whites a plan of attack, which was to station themselves near the place where he had emerged from the grove, after hiding Mary; so that when they followed on his trail they could thus be surprised without difficulty. This advice was adopted by Boone. The Indian then asked permission to depart, saying he had paid the white men for sparing his life.
“Oh no!” cried Joe, when Roughgrove interpreted the Indian’s request, “keep him as a hostage—he may be cheating us.”
“I do not see the impropriety of Joe’s remark this time,” said Glenn.
“Ask him where he will go, if we suffer him to depart,” said Boone. To Roughgrove’s interrogation, the Indian made a passionate reply. He said the white men were liars. They were now quits. Still the white men were not satisfied. He had risked his life (and would probably be tortured) to pay back the white men’s kindness. But they would not believe his words. He was willing to die now. The white men might shoot him.. He would as willingly die as live. If suffered to depart, it was his intention to steal his squaw away from the tribe, and join the Pawnees. He would never be an Osage again.
“Go!” said Boone, perceiving by a ray of moonlight that reached the Indian’s face through the clustering branches of the trees above, that he was in tears. The savage, without speaking another word, leaped out into the prairie, and from the circuitous direction he pursued, it was manifest that nothing could be further from his desire than to fall in with the war-party.
Boone directed the sled to be abandoned, and, obedient to his will, the party entered a small covert in the immediate vicinity of the spot where their guide said he had emerged from the grove on his return to meet the whites. Here the party long remained esconced, silent and listening, and expecting every moment to see the foe. At length Boone grew impatient, and concluding they would encamp that night under the spreading tree, (the locality of which he was familiar with,) he resolved to advance and surprise them. He was strengthened in this determination by the repeated and painful surmises of Roughgrove respecting Mary’s piteous condition. Glenn, and the rest, with perhaps one or two exceptions, likewise seemed disposed to make an instantaneous termination of the torturing suspense respecting the fate of the poor girl.
Boone and Sneak led the way. The party were compelled to proceed with the utmost caution. Sometimes they were forced to crawl many paces on their hands and knees under the pendent snow-covered bushes. They drew near the spreading tree. A fire was burning under it, the flickering rays of which could be occasionally seen glimmering through the branches. A stick was heard to break a little distance on one side, and Boone and Sneak sank down on the snow, and whispered to the rest to follow their example. It was done without a repetition of the order. Joe was the hindmost of all, but after lying a few minutes in silence, he crept softly forward, trembling all the while. When he reached the side of Boone, the aged woodman did not chide him, but simply pointed his finger towards a small decayed log a few paces distant. Joe looked but a moment, and then pulling his hat over his eyes, laid down flat on his face, in silence and submission. An Indian was seated on the log, and very composedly cutting off the dry bark with his tomahawk. Once or twice he paused and remained a moment in a listening attitude. But probably thinking the sounds he heard (if he heard any) proceeded from some comrade like himself in quest of fuel, he continued to cut away, until an armful was obtained, and then very deliberately arose and walked with an almost noiseless step to the fire, which was not more than fifty yards distant. Boone rose softly and whispered the rest to follow. He was promptly obeyed by all except Joe.
“Come, sir! prepare your musket to fire,” said Boone, stooping down to Joe, who still remained apparently frozen to the snow-crust.
“Oh! I’m so sick!” replied Joe.
“If you do not keep with us, you will lose your scalp to a certainty,” said Boone. Joe was well in a second. The party were now about midway between the fallen trunk where Mary was concealed, and the great encampment-tree. Boone rose erect for an instant, and beheld the former, and the single Indian (the chief) who was there. One of the Indians again started out from the fire, in the direction of the whites for more fuel. Boone once more passed the word for his little band to lie down. The tall savage came within a few feet of them. His tomahawk accidentally fell from his hand, and in his endeavour to catch it, he knocked it within a few feet of Sneak’s head. He stepped carelessly aside, and stooped down for it. A strangling and gushing sound was heard, and falling prostrate, he died without a groan. Sneak had nearly severed his head from his body at one blow with his hunting-knife.
At this juncture Mary sprang from her hiding-place. Her voice reached the ears of her father, but before he could run to her assistance, the chiefs loud tones rang through the forest. Boone and the rest sprang forward, and fired upon the savages under the spreading tree. At the second discharge the Indians gave way, and while Col. Cooper, the oarsmen, and the neighbours that had joined the party in the morning, pursued the flying foe, Boone and the remainder ran towards the fallen trunk where Mary had been concealed, but approaching in different directions. Glenn was the first to rush upon the chief, and it was his ball that whizzed so near the Indian’s head when he bore away the shrieking maiden. The rest only fired in the direction of the log, not thinking that Mary had left her covert. They soon met at the fallen tree, under which was the pit, all except Glenn, who sprang forward in pursuit of the chief, and Sneak, who had made a wide circuit for the purpose of reaching the scene of action from an opposite direction, entirely regardless of the danger of being shot by his friends.
“She’s gone! she’s gone!” exclaimed Roughgrove, looking aghast at the vacated pit under the fallen trunk. “But we will have her yet,” said Boone, as he heard Glenn discharge a pistol a few paces apart in the bushes. The report was followed by a yell, not from the chief, but Sneak, and the next moment the rifle of the latter was likewise heard. Still the Indian was not dispatched, for the instant afterwards his tomahawk, which was hurled without effect, came sailing over the bushes, and penetrated a tree hard by, some fifteen or twenty feet above the earth, where it entered the wood with such force that it remained firmly fixed. Now succeeded a struggle—a violent blow was heard—the fall of the Indian, and all was comparatively still. A minute afterwards, Sneak emerged from the thicket, bearing the inanimate body of Mary in his arms, and followed by Glenn.
“Is she dead? Oh, she’s dead!” cried Roughgrove, snatching her from the arms of Sneak.
“She has only fainted!” exclaimed Glenn, examining the body of the pale girl, and finding no wounds.
“She is recovering!” said Boone, feeling her pulse.
“God be praised!” exclaimed Roughgrove, when returning animation was manifest.
“Oh! I know you won’t kill me! For pity’s sake spare me!” said Mary.
“It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.
It is your father, my poor child!
“It is your father, my poor child!” said Roughgrove, pressing the girl to his heart.
“It is! it is!” cried the happy girl, clinging rapturously to the old man’s neck, and then, seizing the hands of the rest, she seemed to be half wild with delight.
“Dod—I—I mean that none of the black noctilerous savages shall ever hurt you as long as Sneak lives,” said Sneak, looking down at his gun, which had been broken off at the breech.
“How did you break that?” asked Boone.
“I broke it over the yaller feller’s head,” said he, “and I’d do it agin, before he should hurt Miss Mary, if itisthe only one I’ve got.”
“I have an extra rifle at home,” said Glenn, “which shall be yours, as a reward for your gallant conduct.”
“Where is the chief? Is he dead?” asked Mary.
“If he ain’t dead, his head’s harder than my gun, that’s all,” said Sneak.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Mary.
“Why, my child?” asked Roughgrove.
“Because,” said Mary, “he’s a good-hearted Indian, and never would have harmed me. When he heard you coming, and raised his tomahawk to kill me, I looked in his face, and he could not strike, for there were tears in his eyes! I know he never would have thought of killing me, when calm, for he treated me very kindly before I escaped.”
“Maybe he ain’t dead—I’ll go and see,” said Sneak, repairing to the late scene of conflict. When he arrived he found the young chief sitting upright, having been only stunned; a gold band that confined his head-dress prevented the blow from fracturing his skull. He was now unresisting and sullen. Sneak made him rise up, and after binding his hands behind him with a strong cord, led him forth.
“You did not intend to kill me, did you?” asked Mary, in soothing tones. The chief regarded her not, but looked steadfastly downwards.
“He don’t understand you, Mary,” said Boone.
“Oh, yes he does,” continued Mary; “and he can speak our language, too, for I heard him talking, and thought it was you, and that was the reason why I came out of the pit.” Roughgrove addressed him in his own language, but with no better success. The captured chief resolved not to plead for his life. He would make no reply whatever to their questions, but still gazed downwards in reckless sullenness.
“What shall we do with him?” asked Glenn, when the rest of the party, (with the exception of Joe,) who had chased the savages far away, came up and stared at the prisoner.
“Let us set him free!” said Roughgrove.
“Kill him!” cried several.
“No!” exclaimed Mary, “what doyousay, Mr. Boone?”
“It would be useless to kill him,” said Boone.
“Let him go, then,” said Glenn.
“No!” said Boone.
“Why?” asked Glenn.
“Because,” replied Boone, “he is a chief, and we may make him the means of securing the settlement against future attacks. We will confine him in your garrison as a hostage, and send some friendly Indian to the Osages announcing his capture, and informing them that his life will be spared provided they keep away from the settlement for a certain length of time, at the expiration of which he shall be restored to them.”
“I am glad of that,” said Mary, “for I don’t believe he is a bad Indian. We will treat him kindly, and then I think he will always be our friend.”
“Take him along, and bind him fast in the sled, Sneak,” said Boone; “but see that you do not injure him in the least.”
“I will. Oh, me and him are purty good friends now. Gee-whoa-haw,” continued he, taking hold of the string behind, and endeavouring to drive the silent captive like an ox. The young chief whirled round indignantly, and with such force as to send Sneak sprawling several paces to one side. He rose amid the laughter that ensued, and remembering the words of Boone, conducted his prisoner away in a more respectful manner.
“Where’s Joe?” at length inquired Glenn, seeing that he alone was missing.
“Oh! I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Mary.
“If he is, I shall mourn his loss many a day,” said Glenn; “for with all his defects, I would not be without him for the world.”
“Give yourself no uneasiness,” said Boone; “for he is as well at this moment as you or I.”
“I hope so,” said Glenn; “but I have not seen him since we first fired at the Indians.”
“Let us repair to that spot, and there we will find him, for I saw him fall down when he discharged his musket. I venture to say he has not moved an inch since.”
The party repaired to the place mentioned, and there they found him, sure enough, lying quite still on his face beside the Indian that Sneak had killed.
“Heisdead!” said Glenn, after calling to him and receiving no answer.
“We’ll soon see,” said Boone, turning him over on his back. “I will open a vein in his arm.”
“Bring a torch from the fire,” said Col. Cooper to one of the men.
“Oh!” sighed Joe, lifting his hands to his head.
“I thought he would soon come to life again,” said Boone, examining his face with the torch that was brought, and then laughing outright. The spectacle was ludicrous in the extreme. Joe was besmeared with blood, and, when he opened his eyes and stared at the flaming light, he resembled some sanguinary demon.
“Where in the world did all this blood come from?” exclaimed Glenn.
“I’m recovered now,” said Joe, rising up and assuming an air of importance.
“What have you been doing?” asked Glenn.
“I’ve been doing as much as any of you, I’ll be bound,” replied Joe, very gravely.
“Well, what have you done?” repeated Glenn.
“I’ve been fighting the last half hour, as hard as anybody ever fought in this world. Only look at the stabs in that Indian!” said he, pointing to the savage.
“Why, you scoundrel! Sneak killed this Indian,” said Glenn.
“Sneak thought he did,” replied Joe, “but he only wounded him. After a while he got up and clinched me by the throat, and we had it over and over on the snow, till we both got so exhausted we couldn’t do any thing. When we rested, we went at it again, and it hasn’t been five minutes since I stuck my knife in his breast. When he fell, I stuck him four or five times, and then fainted myself.”
“Here is a wound in the savage’s breast,” said Glenn.
“But here’s another in the throat,” said Boone, showing where the arteries had been severed by Sneak.
“Joe,” said Glenn, “you must abandon this habit of lying, if indeed it is not a portion of your nature.”
“Hang it all, I ain’t lying—I know Sneak did cut his throat, but he didn’t cut it deep—I cut it deeper, myself, after the Indian got up again!” persisted he.
The party hastily glanced at the four or five dead savages under the trees, that had fallen victims to their fire, and then returned to the sled. Mary was placed beside the captive chief, and they set out on their return, well satisfied with the result of the expedition.