At War with Pontiac | Page 4

Mahng his prisoner, that there may be no bad blood between him and
his white brother."
"Never," replied Major Hester, who was sufficiently versed in the
Indian tongue to catch the general drift of these remarks.
He had hardly uttered the word ere Mahng stooped, darted forward
with deadly intent like a wild serpent, and sought to bury his gleaming
hatchet in the brain of his still prostrate foe.
Like a flash the major's strong right foot shot out; the heavy, hob-nailed
walking-shoe caught the savage squarely under the chin; he was lifted
from the ground, and, falling on his back, lay as one who is dead.
The remaining savages made as though to take instant vengeance for
this deadly insult and, as they imagined, murder of their leader, but
their impulse was checked by a stern command from behind. Glancing

in that direction, they saw themselves covered by a long, brown
rifle-barrel, held by a white man clad in the leathern costume of the
backwoods. At the same time half a dozen laborers who,
home-returning from the fields, had noticed that something unusual
was taking place, came hurrying to the scene of disturbance. Wisely
concluding that under these circumstances discretion was the better part
of valor, the Senecas picked up their helpless comrade and, retreating
as rapidly as their burden would permit, disappeared amid the
darkening shadows of the forest.
The tableau presented at this moment by those who remained was that
of the tall major standing above the prostrate form of the escaped
captive, holding his laughing child in one arm while his trembling wife
clung to the other. Close beside them knelt the terror-stricken maid,
with her face buried in her hands, and a few paces in the rear were
grouped the laborers, armed with various implements of toil. In the
foreground, Truman Flagg, the hunter, white by birth, Indian by
association and education, leaned on his rifle and gazed silently after
the disappearing savages. As they vanished in the forest, he remarked
quietly:--
"'Twas handsomely done, major, and that scoundrel Mahng deserved
all he got. But ef he's as dead as he looks, I'm fearful that kick may get
you into trouble with the tribe, though he's not a Seneca by blood, nor
overly popular at that."
"You know him, then?" queried the major.
"Not edzackly what you might call know him; but I know something of
him."
"Very well; come up to the house and tell me what you know, while we
consider this business. Some of you men carry this poor fellow to the
tool-house, where we will see what can be done for him. Now, my dear,
the evening meal awaits us, and I for one shall partake of it with a
keener relish that this unfortunate affair has terminated so happily."
"I pray God, Graham, that it may be terminated," replied Mrs. Hester,

fervently, as she took the child from its father's arms and strained him
to her bosom.
The whole of this dramatic scene had transpired within the space of a
few minutes, and when the men approached to lift the prostrate Indian
they found him so recovered from his exhaustion as to be able to stand,
and walk feebly with the aid of some support.
Major Hester's first duty, after conveying his wife and child to the
shelter of the blockhouse, was to visit the guest so strangely thrust upon
his hospitality and inquire into his condition. He found him lying on a
pallet of straw, over which a blanket had been thrown, and conversing
with Truman Flagg in an Indian tongue unknown to the proprietor. The
hunter was bathing the stranger's wounds with a gentleness that seemed
out of keeping with his own rude aspect, and administering occasional
draughts of cool well water, that appeared to revive the sufferer as
though it were the very elixir of life.
"What do you make of the case?" asked the major, as he watched
Truman Flagg apply to each of the many gashes in the Indian's body a
healing salve made of bear's grease mixed with the fragrant resin of the
balsam fir. "Will he pull through, think you?"
"Bless you, yes, major! He'll pull through all right; for, bad as his hurts
look, none of em's dangerous. They warn't meant to be. He was nighest
dead from thirst. You see, he's been under torture most of the day,
without nary a drop to wash down his last meal, which war a chunk of
salted meat give to him yesterday evening. He'll pick up fast enough
now, though. All he needs to make him as good as new is food and
drink, and a night's rest. After that you'll find him ready to go on the
war-path again, ef so be he's called to