“Come with us,” said Samuel Wescott. “I will give you a shelter in my house until the war is at an end.”
But Minneoba shook her head sadly.
“No,” she said. “The Indian girl must not leave her father, who loves her. Go in peace.”
They parted from her sadly, and as the flat receded from the shore, they saw her standing in a dejected attitude, leaning on her bow. It was many a day before they saw her again.
The battle was at its hight. Black-Hawk had risked all upon a cast of the die, and had found it a losing game. Melton, Cooney Joe and Tom Bantry were there, fighting gallantly, and as the Indians began to break up, they charged a resolute knot of warriors who stood their ground stubbornly, dealing death on every side.
There was a moment of wild confusion, and Charles Melton found himself face to face with a desperate man, in his war-paint, who assailed him with demoniac fury. Just then Melton’s horse fell, shot through the heart, and his adversary sprung at him with a wild cry of joy, raising a hatchet above his devoted head.
“Death to you, Melton,” he screamed. “I am Will Jackwood, and you die by my hand. If I lost her, at least you shall never possess her.”
Melton, pinned to the earth by his fallen horse, lifted his hand to ward off the blow, but hampered as he was he could offer but slight resistance, and the knife, his only defense, was forced from his hand, and the hatchet gleamed above him.
He had just time to catch the gleam of ferocious joy in the eyes of his enemy, and had given up hope, when a rifle cracked, and Jackwood, throwing up his arms, clutched at the bloody cloth upon his breast, tried once more to lift his weapon, and then, with a snarl of demoniac malice, dropped dead in his tracks, while Cooney Joe, with a rifle smoking in his hand, ran to aid his fallen leader, who was quickly placed upon his feet.
“Who is he?” cried Joe, angrily. “Ha! Black Will, by the mortal. Rubbed out at last.”