“I am John Bonyton, Sagamore of Saco. What will you give me for my head, Governor?”
“How many of your tribe do you carry at your back, John?”
“Not one; I am alone.”
“Then I must say you are a foolhardy man, John, and I warn you to depart. God forbid I should be instrumental in shedding your blood.”
“Hear me, Thomas Gorges. I shall go as I came, and no man will dare lay his hand upon me. Mark me, sir: the shot that lays John Bonyton in the dust will be the signal for the brand, the arrow, and the scalping-knife to fall heavily upon every man, woman and child in this colony. I have warned you.”
He went as he came, alone, and no man dared, as he said, to molest him. These visits he repeated at all times, day or night, till the cross nurse stilled the fretful child by fear of the Sagamore of Saco. So far from being subject to fear for his own life, John Bonyton became a terror to the people of Saco, who never ventured to put any of their edicts against him in execution.
Chief, as he was, of a Pagan tribe, John Bonyton nevertheless felt, or affected to feel, an interest in and need of Christian worship, which he did not fail to gratify when the interests of the tribe permitted him to be absent.
While in the porch of the sacred edifice was pasted up a reward, and an ample one, to whomsoever would bring to the Governor the head of the handsome outlaw, one clear summer morning, the inhabitants being assembled for worship, John Bonyton walked in and read the “Notice” in a clear voice, audible to the people inside, who trembled in their boots. He then stuck a flint-headed arrow through the paper, and walked half-way up the central aisle of the little church.
The minister was at prayer; but being an intrepid man, and accustomed to take a peep now and then through his closed lids, he did so on this occasion, and the prayer, ordinarily an hour in length, was greatly abridged.
There stood John Bonyton, rifle in hand, tall, dark, and defiant.