“How did they smoke with it; there’s no stem—only a little mite.”
“He said they stuck a piece of elder in it for a stem.”
Continuing their search, Fred dug out an iron instrument, entirely red with rust.
“I know what that is,” he said, rubbing it over the edge of the hoe, to get off the rust.
“What is it?”
“A tomahawk.”
“It looks like a hatchet. What is it for?—to cut wood?”
“To cut wood! To cut folks’ heads off, and split them open. The Indians killed my grandfather with just such a thing as that; they will throw ’em so that they will whirl over and over till the edge sticks right into a man’s skull.”
“How did they kill your grandfather?”
“He was leading his horse to the brook to drink. The Indians were hid in the bushes; the horse either saw or smelt them, and wouldn’t go to the water. My grandfather tried to get him to go at first, but in a minute he thought it was Indians, and jumped on his back and set him into a run. The Indians gave chase, and one of them threw a tomahawk, and struck it into the side of his neck; he kept on the horse just long enough to reach home, and fell on the door-step; and for all the horse run, the Indians were at the door almost as soon as he. My uncle fired and shot one of them, and they went off; but my grandfather died about sundown.”