He stopped and ducked just in time; a bullet must have sped over him. Now the Delawares were crying—“The Black Rifle! It is death! Run!” Run they did, Big Bear the same as the others, and the Mingos and Robert following.
They ran helter skelter, much as the Catawbas had run when surprised. At last they stopped, and gathered again.
“You said truly, brother,” Big Bear panted, to Aroas. “The Black Rifle was upon our trail. Now we have lost two warriors. Wah! But he is not a man; he is a demon.”
“We have heard of the Black Hunter,” said White Thunder. “He is like death on the trail of the Indian. He strikes to kill, like the wounded bear. The Delaware have lost many warriors to the Black Hunter of the Juniata.”
And Robert himself had heard of Captain Jack, the giant settler who roamed the Pennsylvania woods, killing Indians in revenge for his family whom Indians had killed. The “Black Rifle” and the “Black Hunter” were the names given him. He feared nothing, no bullet could hurt him; he always struck before he was seen. It was small wonder that the Delawares ran to save their lives.
“The way home is closed,” Big Bear was saying. “But there will be English in the south, and blood shall pay for blood.”
“No. Your talk is wild talk,” White Thunder opposed. “You will do foolish to go against the English, and break the chain of friendship.”
“The Black Rifle is English, and two fresh Delaware scalps are hanging at his belt,” Big Bear retorted. “Why should we not kill the English?”
“The Black Rifle did it; not the English. He is a mad dog. The English are friends of the Mingo. They are welcome at Logstown. They will help us against the French who claim the country of the Ohio.”
“The English are driving the Delaware from the land granted them by the first father called Penn,” Big Bear answered. “Soon there will be only the Ohio Country in the west for the Delaware. The Delaware would rather have the French. The French do not take land; they give it. The English build forts and houses and clear off the land and there is no game, no place for the Indian. They shoot us. They call the Indians, dogs. The French leave things as they are; they ask the Indian to live near and hunt; they call the Indian, brother.”