"I differ; Willimack will stay. Yew ain't goin' tew git eout and call yure comrades up here afore we git the gates in shape. Don't yew b'lieve it!"
"I really think you are too fast, my friend," said the elder Floyd. "The Indians have always treated me well."
"I don't care a darn how they've treated yew. That Injin ain't goin' out of this gate till it's hung; and if yew take my advice, yew'll keep him till morning, 'cause I b'lieve my soul he's got comrades outlying in them bushes."
"I will go!" screamed Willimack. "Who will stay the course of the chief of the Wyandots?"
"This identical cuss. Yew offer tew go eout of this gate, and I'll give yew a back-hander that will make yew forgit yure parents. Now yew bet yure boots on that."
Willimack was no coward, and made a rush at the immovable figure of the Yankee, knife in hand.
For the first time the ire of Seth Spink seemed to be fully aroused, and, rushing at the chief with a snarl like that of a wild beast, he caught him by the wrist, and, giving it a wrench, shook the weapon from his grasp. Then, seizing him by the shoulders, he lifted him from the ground, shook him as a terrier shakes a cat, and dashed him to the earth with stunning force.
"Bring ropes here!" he hissed. "The devil is in this condemned skunk, bigger than a woodchuck."
Will Floyd threw him some pieces of buck-skin, with which he bound the feet of the savage, and then sprung up to work upon the gate.