They stood one at either side of the Indian, watching.
“If he puts in ball,” said Gist, “his heart is bad. I’ll crack him from here, major, or he’ll do damage.”
And Gist’s gun was levelled and his finger upon the trigger.
“No,” ordered Washington. Then he walked straight in, for the tree. “Give me that gun,” he ordered. He looked at the Indian, and the Indian looked at him, and handed over the gun.
“The young chief is not angry with his brother?” the Indian asked. “His brother fires only powder, to clean his gun.”
“Then why did my brother run behind a tree?”
“He was afraid. The white men did not seem to understand.”
Washington drew the ramrod and dropped it into the barrel, and measured. Anybody could see that there was a ball on top the powder now.
“You ought to have let me kill him, major,” said Gist. “He deserved death for that trick. Now we must keep charge of the guns, and get rid of him first chance we have.”