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 that _Mary_ is in the hands of the Indians? Would you
hesitate even to _die_, 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.”
“I _hope_ my head’ll be well by morning,” said Joe.
“I _know_ it 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 almost
_any thing_ for 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 poor
_Mary_ asked 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!”
“_Hear_ me,” continued Boone; “she desired me to ask you not to use
that ugly word _dod-rot_ any 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’ll _do_ what you
want me to,” said Sneak.
“I think _you_ will 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—_indeed_ I 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 had _two_ children, 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 knew _all_!” 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 dod _rot_ your 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’t _you_ say 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 in _two 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 it _is_ the 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 do _you_ say, 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.
“He _is_ dead!” 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.