“I ain’t no ways perticler about the weapon,” replied Sim; “all I ask is a shy at old Ike. Ef I don’t stuff his pipe down his piratical old throat, I hope I may have to sarve crazy George to the end of my days, that’s all!”
“Shed as little blood as possible, men,” said Colonel Wesson; “and, by all means, take Walter Butler alive.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sim; “there’s an old rope in Shoemaker’s barn, that they tie the kicking heifer with—the noose in it’ll fit that feller’s neck to a T.”
“We are all ready,” said the colonel. “File out, men—steady and quiet. Forward, march!”
Walter Butler still slept upon the wooden settle, moving restlessly in his slumbers, and uttering broken exclamations which betrayed how even his dreams took a share in the cruel and bloody projects he had formed. The farmer dozed quietly upon the hearth, the pine knots had burned almost to ashes, and the kitchen was wrapped in gloom, save when the dying embers crackled and sent up a lurid flame for an instant, only to die out and leave the gloom and stillness deeper than before.
Up the road came that little band of faithful Whigs, in stern and silent indignation against the men who had so often laid waste their peaceful homes, and scattered ruin and desolation wherever they passed.
The troops surrounded the house with noiseless caution, but still there was no sound within. The door had been left unfastened in their secure carelessness, and yielded without an effort to the assailants’ touch.
Suddenly there was a tread of heavy feet—the room was bright with the glare of torches, and Walter Butler sprang to his feet from a troubled dream, to find himself in the sure grasp of the men he had so often persecuted.
“The rebels are on us!” he shouted. “Here, men, men!”
This cry was echoed by a war-whoop from the Indians above, but as the foremost of his men burst upon them, he fell dead, pierced by a bullet from one of the Whigs. Another and another shared the same fate, and the savages and Tories retreated in confusion to their place of concealment.