Sneak skills a sow that “was not all a swine”—The breathless
suspense—The match in readiness—Joe’s cool demeanour—The match
ignited—Explosion of the mine—Defeat of the savages—The captive—His
liberation—The repose—The kitten—Morning.
“Don’t you think I know who you are, and what you’re after?” said
Sneak, as he observed a large black sow, or what seemed to be one,
rambling about on the snow within a hundred paces of him. “If that
ain’t _my_ sow! She’s gone, that’s dead sure; and if I don’t pepper the
red rascal that killed her I wish I may be split. That Indian ’ll find
I’m not such a fool as he took me for. Just wait till he gits close
enough. I ain’t to be deceived by my own sow’s dead skin, with a great
big Osage in it, nohow you can fix it.” Sneak’s conjecture was right.
The Indian that Joe had killed was a chief, and the apparent sow was
nothing more than a savage enveloped in a swine’s skin. The Indian,
after reconnoitering the premises with some deliberation, evidently
believed that his stratagem was successful, and at length moved in the
direction of his dead comrade, with the manifest intention of bearing
the body away.
“I’ll let you have it now!” said Sneak, firing his rifle, when the
seeming sow began to drag the fallen chief from the field. The
discharge took effect; the savage sprang upright and endeavoured to
retreat in the manner that nature designed him to run; but he did not
go more than a dozen paces before he sank down and expired.
“That’s tit for tat, for killing my sow,” said Sneak, gazing at his
postrate foe.
“Come here, Sneak,” said Boone, from the opposite side of the
inclosure.
“There was but one, and I fixed him,” said Sneak, when they asked him
how many of the enemy were in view when he fired.
“They heard the gun,” said Glenn, applying his ear to the chink, and
remarking that the Indians had suddenly ceased to work under the snow.
“Be quiet,” said Boone; “they will begin again in a minute or two.”
“They’re at it a’ready,” said Sneak, a moment after, and very soon they
were heard again, more distinctly than ever, cutting away with
increased rapidity.
“Suppose the match does not burn?” observed Glenn, in tones betraying a
fearful apprehension.
“In such an event,” said Boone, “we must retreat into the house, and
fasten the door without a moment’s delay. But I do not much fear any
such failure, for the dampness of the snow cannot so soon have
penetrated through the dry reeds to the powder. Still we should be
prepared—therefore, as there is no necessity that more than one of us
should be here now, and as I am that man, withdraw, all of you, within
the house, and remain there until your ears and eyes shall dictate what
course to pursue.” Boone’s command was promptly obeyed, and when they
reached the house and looked back, (the door was kept open,) they
beheld the renowned pioneer standing erect, holding a pistol in his
right hand (which he pointed at the cotton that connected with a train
of powder running along a short plank to the reed that reached the
buried keg,) while the moon, now midway in the heavens, “and
beautifully bright,” revealed the stern and determined expression of
pale brow and fixed lip. Thus he stood many minutes, and they seemed
hours to those who gazed upon the breathless scene from the house. Not
a sound was heard, save the rapid ticking of tomahawks under the snow
outside of the inclosure, or the occasional hasty remark of those who
were looking on in painful and thrilling suspense. Once Boone bowed his
head and listened an instant to the operations of the savages, and when
he rose erect again, the party looking on confidently expected he would
fire the train. But the fatal moment had not yet arrived. Still he
pointed the pistol at the combustible matter, and his eye glanced along
the barrel; but he maintained a statue-like stillness, as if awaiting
some preconcerted signal.
“Why don’t he fire?” inquired Glenn, in a whisper.
“It is not quite time yet,” responded Roughgrove.
“Dod! they’ll crawl up presently, and jump over the fence,” said Sneak.
“Oh, goodness! I wish he’d shoot!” said Joe, in low, sepulchral tones,
his head thrust between Sneak’s legs, whither he had crawled
unobserved, and was now peering out at the scene.
“Who are you?” exclaimed Sneak, leaping away from Joe’s bandaged head,
which he did not recognize at the first glance.
“It’s nobody but me,” said Joe, turning his face upward, that his
friend might not suppose him an enemy.
“Well, what are you doing here? I thought you was a dying.”
“I’m a good deal better, but I’m too weak to do any thing yet,” said
Joe, in piteous tones, as he looked fearfully at Boone, and listened to
the strokes of the Indians without, which became louder and louder.
“Stand back a little,” said Boone to those in the door-way, “that I may
enter when I fire—the match may burn more briskly than I anticipated.”
A passage was opened for him to enter. He pulled the trigger—the pistol
missed fire—he deliberately poured in fresh priming from his horn, and
once more taking aim, the pistol was discharged, and, running to the
house, and entering a little beyond the threshold, he paused, and
turned to behold the realization of his hopes. The light combustible
matter flashed up brightly, and the blaze ran along the ground a moment
in the direction of the end of the reed; but at the instant when all
expected to see the powder ignited, the flames seemed to die away, and
the darkness which succeeded impressed them with the fear that the damp
snow had, indeed, defeated their purpose.
“Split me if it _shan’t_ go off!” cried Sneak, running out with a torch
in his hand, that he snatched from the fireplace. When he reached the
trench that had been dug along the palisade, and in which the slow
match was placed, he looked down but once, and dashing his fire-brand
behind him, sprang back to the house, with all the celerity of which he
was capable. “Dod!” said he, “it’s burning yet, but we couldn’t see it
from here. It’ll set the powder off in less than no time!”
“I trust it will!” said Boone, with much anxiety. And truly the crisis
had arrived, beyond which, if it were delayed a single minute, it would
be too late! The _voices_ of the Indians could now be heard, and the
sounds of the tomahawks had ceased. They were evidently on the eve of
breaking through the icy barrier, and rushing upon their victims.
Boone, with a composed but livid brow, placed his hand upon the
ponderous door, for the purpose of retreating within, and barring out
the ruthless assailants. The rest instinctively imitated his motions,
but at the same time their eyes were yet riveted on the dimly burning
match. A small flash was observed to illumine the trench—another and a
larger one succeeded! The first train of powder was ignited—the Indians
were bursting through the snow-crust with direful yells—the blaze ran
quickly along the plank—it reached the end of the reed—a shrill
whizzing sound succeeded—a sharp crash under the snow—and then all was
involved in a tremendous chaotic explosion! An enormous circular cloud
of smoke enveloped the scene for a moment, and then could be seen
tomahawks, bows, and arrows, and even _savages_, sailing through the
air. The moon was darkened for the space of several minutes, during
which time immense quantities of snow poured down from above. The
startling report seemed to rend both the earth and the heavens, and
rumbled far up and down the valley of the Missouri, like the deep
bellowing of a coruscant thunder-cloud, and died away in successive
vibrations until it finally resembled the partially suppressed growling
of an angry lion.
When the inmates of the house sallied forth, the scene was again quiet.
After clearing away the enormous masses of snow from the palisade, they
looked out from the inclosure through the loophole on the east, and all
was stillness and silence. But the view was changed. Instead of the
level and smooth surface, they now beheld a concave formation of snow,
beginning at the earth, which was laid bare where the powder had been
deposited, and widening, upward and outward, till the ring of the
extreme angle reached a height of fifteen or twenty feet, and measured
a circumference of fifty paces. But they did not discover a single dead
body. On the contrary, they soon distinguished the sounds of the
savages afar off, in fiendish and fearful yells, as they retreated in
great precipitation.
“Dod! none of ’em’s killed!” exclaimed Sneak, looking about in
disappointment.
“Hang it all, how could they expect to kill any, without putting in
some lead?” replied Joe, standing at his elbow, and evincing no
symptoms of illness.
“What’re _you_ a doing out here? You’d better go in and finish dying,”
said Sneak.
“No, I thank you,” said Joe; “my time’s not come yet; and when it does
come, I’ll know what to do without your instructions. I’m well now—I
never felt better in my life, only when I was eating.”
“Go to the horses, Joe, and see if they have suffered any injury,” said
Glenn. “I don’t believe a single Indian was killed by the explosion,”
he continued, addressing Boone.
“The snow may have preserved them,” replied Boone; “and yet,” he
continued, “I am sure I saw some of them flying up in the air.”
“I saw them too,” said Glenn, “but I have known instances of the kind,
when powder-mills have blown up, where men were thrown a considerable
distance without being much injured.”
“It answered our purpose, at all events,” said Boone, “for now, no
inducement whatever can ever bring them back”
“If I were sure of that,” replied Glenn, “I would not regret the
bloodless result of the explosion.”
“You may rely upon it implicitly,” said Boone; “for it was a surprise
they can never understand, and they will attach to it some
superstitious interpretation, which will most effectually prevent them
from meditating another attack”
“Goodness gracious alive!” exclaimed Joe, nimbly springing past Boone
and Glenn, and rushing into the house.
“What can be the matter with the fellow, now?” exclaimed Glenn.
“He was alarmed at something in the stable—see what it is, Sneak,” said
Boone.
“I’ve got you, have I? Dod! come out here!” exclaimed Sneak, when he
had been in the stable a few moments.
“Who are you talking to?” asked Glenn.
“A venimirous Osage smutty-face!” said Sneak, stepping out of the
stable door backwards, and dragging an Indian after him by the ears.
“What is that?” demanded Glenn, staring at the singular object before
him. The question was by no means an unnatural one, for no being in the
human shape ever seemed less like a man. The unresisting and bewildered
savage looked wildly round, displaying a face as black as if he had
just risen from the bottom of some infernal lake. His tattered buckskin
garments had shared the same fate in the explosion; his eyebrows, and
the hair of his head were singed and crisped; and, altogether he might
easily have passed for one of Pluto’s scullions. He did not make
resistance when Sneak led him forth, seeming to anticipate nothing else
than an instantaneous and cruel death, and was apparently resigned to
his fate. He doubtless imagined that escape and longer life were
utterly impossible, inasmuch as, to his comprehension, he was in the
grasp of evil spirits. If he had asked himself _how_ he came thither,
it could not have occurred to him that any other means than the agency
of a supernatural power threw him into the hands of the foe.
“I thought I saw one of them plunging through the air over the
inclosure,” said Boone, smiling.
“Hanged if I didn’t think so too,” said Joe, who had at length returned
to gaze at the captive, when he ascertained that he was entirely meek
and inoffensive.
“Have you got over your fright already?” asked Sneak.
“What fright?” demanded Joe, with affected surprise.
“Now, _can_ you say you weren’t skeered?”
“Ha! ha! ha! I believe you really thought I _was_ frightened. Why, you
dunce, you! I only ran in to tell Miss Mary about it.”
“Now go to bed. Don’t speak to me agin to night,” said Sneak,
indignantly.
“I’ll go and get something to eat,” said Joe, retreating into the
house.
“Tell Roughgrove to come here,” said Boone, speaking to Joe.
“I will,” said Joe, vanishing through the door.
When the old ferryman came out, Boone requested him (he being the most
familiar with the Osage language,) to ask the savage by what means he
was enabled to get inside of the inclosure. Roughgrove did his bidding;
and the Indian replied that the Great Spirit _threw_ him over the
palisade, because he once killed a friend of Boone’s at the
cave-spring, and was now attempting to kill another.
“Why did you wish to kill us?” asked Roughgrove.
The Indian said it was because they thought Glenn had a great deal of
money, many fire weapons, and powder and bullets, which they (the
savages) wanted.
“Was it _right_ to rob the white man of these things, and then to
murder him?” continued Roughgrove.
The savage replied that the prophet (Raven) had told the war-party it
was right. Besides, they came a long and painful journey to get
(Glenn’s) goods, and had suffered much with cold in digging under the
snow; several of their party had been killed and wounded, and he
thought they had a good right to every thing they could get.
“Did the whites ever go to your village to rob and murder?” inquired
the old ferryman.
The Indian assumed a proud look, and replied that they _had_. He said
that the buffalo, the bear, the deer, and the beaver—the eternal
prairies and forests—the rivers, the air and the sky, all belonged to
the red men. That the whites had not been _invited_ to come among them,
but they had intruded upon their lands, stolen their game, and killed
their warriors. Yet, he said, the Indians did not hate Boone, and would
not have attacked the premises that night, if they had known he was
there.
“Why do they not hate Boone? He has killed more of them than any one
else in this region,” continued Roughgrove.
The Indian said that Boone was a great prophet, and was loved by the
Great Spirit.
“Will the war-party return hither to-night?” asked Roughgrove.
The Indian answered in the negative; and added that they would never
attack that place again, because the Great Spirit had fought against
them.
Boone requested Roughgrove to ask what would be done with the false
prophet who had advised them to make the attack.
The savage frowned fiercely, and replied that he would be tied to a
tree, and shot through the heart a hundred times.
“What do you think we intend to do to _you_?” asked Roughgrove.
The savage said he would be skinned alive and put under the ice in the
river, or burned to death by a slow fire. He said he was ready to die.
“I’ll be shot if he isn’t a spunky fellow!” said Sneak.
“Do you desire such a fate?” continued the old ferry man.
“The Indian looked at him with surprise, and answered without
hesitation that he _did_—and then insisted upon being killed
immediately.
“Would you attempt to injure the white man again if we were not to kill
you?”
The Indian smiled, but made no answer.
“I am in earnest,” continued Roughgrove, “and wish to know what you
would do if we spared your life.”
The Indian said such talk was only trifling, and again insisted upon
being dispatched.
After a short consultation with Boone and Glenn, Roughgrove repeated
his question.
The savage replied that he did not believe it possible for him to
escape immediate death—but if he were not killed, he could never think
of hurting any of those, who saved him, afterwards. Yet he stated very
frankly that he would kill and rob any _other_ pale-faces he might meet
with.
“Let me blow his brains out,” said Sneak, throwing his gun up to his
shoulder. The Indian understood the movement, if not the words, and
turning towards him, presented a full front, without quailing.
“He speaks the truth,” said Boone; “he would never injure any of us
himself, nor permit any of his tribe to do it, so far as his influence
extended. Yet he will die rather than make a promise not to molest
others. His word may be strictly relied upon. It is not fear that
extorts the promise never to war against us—it would be his gratitude
for sparing his life. Take down your gun, Sneak. Let us decide upon his
fate. I am in favour of liberating him.”
“And I,” said Glenn.
“And I,” said Roughgrove.
“I vote for killing him,” said Sneak.
“Hanged if I don’t, too,” said Joe, who had been listening from the
door.
“Spare him,” said Mary, who came out, and saw what was passing.
“We have the majority, Mary,” said Glenn; “and when innocence pleads,
the generous hand is stayed.”
Roughgrove motioned the savage to follow, and he led him to the gate.
The prisoner did not understand what was to be done. He evidently
supposed that his captors were about to slay him, and he looked up, as
he thought, the last time, at the moon and the stars, and his lips
moved in deep and silent adoration.
Roughgrove opened the gate, and the savage followed him out, composedly
awaiting his fate. But seeing no indication of violence, and calling to
mind the many wild joys of his roving youth, and the horrors of a
sudden death, he spoke not, yet his brilliant eyes were dimmed for a
moment with tears. His deep gaze seemed to implore mercy at the hands
of his captors. He would not utter a petition that his life might be
spared, yet his breast heaved to rove free again over the flowery
prairies, to bathe in the clear waters of running streams, to inhale
the balmy air of midsummer morning, to chase the panting deer upon the
dizzy peak, and to hail once more the bright smiles of his timid bride
in the forest-shadowed glen.
“Go! thou art free!” said Roughgrove.
The Indian stared in doubt, and looked reproachfully at the guns in the
hands of his captors, as if he thought they were only mocking him with
hopes of freedom, when it was their intention to shoot him down the
moment he should think his life was truly spared.
“Go! we will not harm thee!” repeated Roughgrove.
“And take this,” said Mary, placing some food in his yielding hand.
The Indian gazed upon the maiden’s face. His features, by a magical
transition, now beamed with confidence and hope. Mary was in tears—not
tears of pity for his impending death, but a gush of generous emotion
that his life was spared. The savage read her heart—he knew that the
white woman never intercedes in vain, and that no victim falls when
sanctified by her tears. He clasped her hand and pressed it to his
lips; and then turning away in silence, set off in a stately and
deliberate pace towards the west. He looked not back to see if a
treacherous gun was pointed at him. He knew that the maiden had not
trifled with him. He knew that she would not mock a dying man with
bread. He neither looked back nor quickened his step. And so he
vanished from view in the valley.
He clapsed her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
He clasped her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
“Dod! he’s gone! We ought to’ve had his sculp!” said Sneak, betraying
serious mortification.
“We must give it up, though—we were in the minority,” said Joe,
satisfied with the decision.
“In the what?” asked Sneak.
“In the minority,” said Joe.
“Let’s go in the house and git something to eat,” said Sneak.
“Hang me if I ain’t willing to be with you there,” said Joe.
The whole party entered the house to partake of a collation prepared by
the dainty hands of Mary. Mary had frequently insisted upon serving
them with refreshments during the night, but hitherto all her
persuasions had been unavailing, for the dangers that beset them on
every hand had banished all other thoughts than those of determined
defensive operations.
Boone was so certain that nothing farther was to be apprehended from
the enemy, that he dispensed with the sentinels at the loopholes. He
relied upon Ringwood and Jowler to guard them through the remainder of
the night; and when a hearty meal was eaten he directed his gallant
little band to enjoy their wonted repose.
Ere long Mary slumbered quietly beside her father, while Boone and
Glenn occupied the remaining couch. Sneak was seated on a low stool,
near the blazing fire, and Joe sat in Glenn’s large arm chair, on the
opposite side of the hearth. The fawn and the kitten were coiled close
together in the centre of the room.
Save the grinding jaws of Sneak and Joe, a death-like silence reigned.
Occasionally, when Sneak lifted his eyes from the pewter platter that
lay upon his knees, and glanced at the bandages on his companion’s
head, his jaws would cease to move for a few moments, during which he
gazed in astonishment at the ravenous propensity of the invalid. But
not being inclined to converse or remonstrate, he endeavoured to get
through with his supper with as much expedition as possible, that he
might enjoy all the comforts of refreshing sleep. Yet he was often on
the eve of picking a quarrel with Joe, when he suffered a sudden twinge
from his broken tooth, while striving to tear the firmer portion of the
venison from the bone. But when he reflected upon his peculiar
participation in the occurrence which had caused him so justly to
suffer, he repressed his rising anger and proceeded with his labour of
eating.
Joe, on the other hand, discussed his savoury dish with unalloyed
satisfaction; yet he, too, paused occasionally, and fixing his eyes
upon the glaring fire, seemed plunged in the deepest thought. But he
did not glance at his companion. At these brief intervals he was
apparently reflecting upon the incidents of the night. One thing in
particular puzzled him; he could not, for the life of him, conceive how
his musket rebounded with such violence, when he was positively certain
that he had put but one charge in it, and that only a moderate one. He
was sometimes inclined to think the blow he received on the head was
dealt by Sneak; but when he reflected it would be unnatural for one man
to strike another with his _teeth_, and that Sneak had likewise
sustained a serious injury at the same time, conjectures were entirely
at fault.
“What are you a thinking about so hard?” asked Sneak.
“I’m trying to think how I got that blow on the back of my head,” said
Joe, turning half abstractedly to Sneak.
“Yes, and I’d like to know how you come to mash my mouth so
dod-rottedly,” said Sneak, in well-affected ill nature.
“Hang it, Sneak, you know well enough that I wouldn’t do such a thing
on purpose, when I was obliged to almost knock out my own brains to do
it,” said Joe, apologetically.
“If I hadn’t thought of that,” replied Sneak, “I don’t know but I
should’ve shot you through when I got up.”
“And I should never have blamed you for it,” said Joe, “if it had been
done on purpose. Does it hurt you much now?”
“Don’t you see how its bleeding?”
“That’s gravy running out of your mouth, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but its bloody a little,” said Sneak, licking his lips.
“I shall have to sit up and sleep,” said Joe; “for my head’s so sore I
can’t lie down.”
“I’m a going to lay my head on this stool and sleep; and I’m getting so
drowsy I can’t set much longer,” said Sneak.
“All’ll be square between us, about breaking your tooth, won’t it?”
“Yes, I can’t bear malice,” said Sneak, shaking Joe’s extended hand.
“Oh me!” said Joe, “I shan’t be able to doze a bit, hardly, for trying
to study out how the old musket came to kick me so.”
“I’ve got a notion to tell you, jest to see if you’ll sleep any better,
then.”
“Do you know?” asked Joe, quickly; “if you do, I’ll thank you with all
my heart to tell me?”
“Dod! if I don’t!” said Sneak; “but all’s square betwixt us?”
“Yes, if you’re willing.”
“Well, don’t you remember when I told you to count the Indians standing
out there, I leant agin you to look over your shoulder? I stole a
cartrich out of your shot-bag then, and slipt it in the muzzle of your
musket. Don’t you know it was leaning agin the post?”
Joe turned round and looked Sneak full in the face for several moments,
without uttering a word.
“When it went off,” continued Sneak, “it made the tremendousest crack I
ever heard in all my life, except when the keg of powder busted.”
“You confounded, blasted rascal you!” exclaimed Joe, doubling up his
fists, and preparing to assault his friend.
“Now don’t go to waking up the folks!” said Sneak.
“I’ll be hanged if I hain’t got a great notion to wear out the iron
poker over your head!” continued Joe, his eyes gleaming with rage.
“Look at my tooth,” said Sneak, grinning in such manner that the
remaining fragment of the member named could be distinctly seen. The
ludicrous expression of his features was such as constrained Joe to
smile, and his enmity vanished instantaneously.
“I believe you got the worst of the bargain, after all,” said Joe,
falling back in his chair and laughing quite heartily.
“You know,” continued Sneak, “I didn’t mean it to turn out as bad as it
did. I jest thought it would kick you over in the snow, and not hurt
you any, hardly.”
“Well, let’s say no more about it,” said Joe; “but when you do any
thing of that kind hereafter, pause and reflect on the consequences,
and forbear.”
“I’ll keep my mouth out of the way next time,” said Sneak; “and now, as
all’s square betwixt us, s’pose we agree about how we are to do with
them dead Indians. S’pose we go halves with all the things they’ve
got?”
“No, I’ll be hanged if I do!” said Joe quickly. “The one I shot was a
chief, and he’s sure to have some gold about him.”
“Yes, but you know you’d never a killed him if it hadn’t been for me.”
“But if it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have got hurt,” replied Joe,
reproachfully.
“Well, I don’t care much about the chief—the one I killed maybe took
all his silver and gold before I shot him. Anyhow, I know I can find
something out there in the snow where they were blowed up,” said Sneak,
arranging a buffalo robe on the hearth and lying down.
“And we must hereafter let each other alone, Sneak,” said Joe, “for the
fact is, we are both too much for one another in our tricks.”
“I’m willing,” replied Sneak, lazily, as his eyes gradually closed.
Joe placed his dish on the shelf over the fireplace, and folding his
arms, and leaning back in his great chair, likewise closed his eyes.
But a few moments sufficed to place them both in the land of dreams.
And now the silence was intense. Even the consuming logs of wood seemed
to sink by degrees into huge livid coals, without emitting the least
sparkling sound. The embers threw a dim glare over the scene, such as
Queen Mab delights in when she leads her fairy train through the
chambers of sleeping mortals. A sweet smile rested upon the lips of
Mary. A loved form flitted athwart her visions. Roughgrove’s features
wore a grave but placid cast. Boone’s face was as passionless and calm
as if he were a stranger to terrific strife. Perils could now make no
impression on him. There was sadness on the damp brow of Glenn, and a
tear was stealing through the corner of his lids. A scene of woe, or
the crush of cherished hopes, was passing before his entranced vision.
Sneak, ever and anon grasped the empty air, and motioned his arm, as if
in the midst of deadly conflict. And Joe, though his bruised face
betrayed not his cast of thought, still evinced a participation in the
ideal transactions of the night, by the frequent involuntary motions of
his body, and repeated endeavours to avoid visionary dangers.
The kitten lay upon the soft neck of the fawn, and at intervals resumed
its low, humming song, which had more than once been hushed in perfect
repose. At a late hour, or rather an early one, just ere the first
faint ray of morning appeared in the distant east, puss purred rather
harshly on the silken ears of its companion, and its sharp claws
producing a stinging sensation, the fawn shook its head violently, and
threw its little bed-fellow rather rudely several feet away. The
kitten, instead of being angry, fell into a merry mood, and began to
frisk about in divers directions, first running under the bed, then
springing upon some diminutive object on the floor as it would upon a
mouse, and finally pricking again the ear of the fawn. The fawn then
rose up, and creeping gently about the room, touched the cheeks or
hands of the slumbering inmates with its velvet tongue, but so softly
that none were awakened. The kitten, no longer able to annoy its
companion by its mischievous pranks, now paced up to the fire and
commenced playing with a dangling string attached to Joe’s moccasin.
Once it jumped up with such force against his foot that he jerked it
quickly several inches away. But this only diverted puss the more.
Instead of being content with the palpable demonstration thus effected,
it followed up the advantage gained by applying both its claws and
teeth to the foot. While it confined its operations to the stout
buckskin, but little impression was made; but when it came in contact
with the ankle, which was only covered with a yarn stocking, the result
was entirely different.
“Ugh! Confound the fire!” exclaimed Joe, giving a tremendous kick,
which dashed puss most violently into Sneak’s face.
“Hey! Dod! What is it?” cried Sneak, tearing the kitten (whose briery
nails had penetrated the skin of his nose) away, and throwing it across
the room. “I say! did you do that?” continued Sneak, wiping the blood
from his nose with his sleeve, and addressing Joe, who kept his eyes
fast closed, though almost bursting with suppressed laughter, and
pretending to be steeped in earnest slumber. “I won’t stand this!” said
Sneak, smarting with his wounds, and striking the chair in which Joe
sat with his foot. “Now,” continued Sneak, “if you done that, jest say
so, that’s all.”
“Did what?” asked Joe, opening his eyes suddenly.
“Why, throwed that ere pestiverous cat on me!” said Sneak.
“No. Goodness! is there a pole-cat in here?” exclaimed Joe, in such
well-counterfeited tones of anxiety and alarm, that the real encounter
occurring to Sneak, and his pain being now somewhat abated, he gave
vent to a hearty fit of laughter, which awoke every person in the
house.