“Very good; Bill shoot deer, too.”
Captain Parks returned to his hiding place, and the Indian followed, and passed beyond and concealed himself behind him. The Shawnee held his rifle toward the captain, and continually raised his head as though he expected the approach of some animal; but the captain soon became convinced that these glances were bestowed upon himself. They remained in this position for an hour. At the expiration of that time the captain arose and expressed his determination of going home. The savage arose also, and they started together.
When within a few miles of home, they reached a large brook, in which were thrown several stones, to assist in crossing over. Without hesitation, our friend stepped on these and commenced passing. As he reached the opposite shore, he turned suddenly around to see the savage. This movement saved his life, for at that instant the savage raised his rifle and fired. The bullet shattered the powder-horn at the captain’s waist, and before he could recover, the Indian uttered a yell of defiance and disappeared in the forest.
“After him, dog, and tear him to pieces!” he exclaimed, furiously.
The dog plunged into the forest with a howl, and took his trail with the quickness of lightning. Suddenly the yelp of the dog ceased, and before he had taken a dozen steps, the moaning, bleeding form of his dog appeared. He dropped with a whine at the captain’s feet. The poor brute was dead, and Captain Parks was convinced that the Shawnees were pretty well rid of their friendly feeling toward the settlers.
CHAPTER XII.
It is one of those pleasant summer days, a few months after the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter, that we take a glance at the settlement which figures so conspicuously in our narrative, and which latterly had enjoyed comparative quiet.
Captain Parks, on his return from the adventure related in our last chapter, had given his opinion that the whole Shawnee tribe, and Bill especially, were a set of unmitigated scoundrels, and that it would never do to repose the least confidence in them.
Late in the evening of the beautiful summer’s day of which we speak, Kingman and Irene passed through the block-house and arm-in-arm made their way slowly toward the river.
The girlish beauty of Irene had ripened into all the fascinating charms of womanhood. There was a deeper blueness in her mild, affectionate eye, though it could still sparkle with its wonted fire, and a meeker, more subdued expression of the countenance.