“Don’t you hear, Master George? Hark at them; the wretches have begun their work.”
I still clung to the gun, and turned my head as a wild burst of shrieks rose from behind—the firing had ceased, but the shouting and yelling were blood-curdling, as in that horrible moment I felt sure that our men were beaten, and a massacre had begun.
But my father was there, and it seemed too horrible for such a deed as this to be done. If we were to die by the Indians’ hands, I felt that we must. But quietly stand by and let Morgan do this thing I would not, and I clung to the gun.
“Let go before it’s too late, boy,” panted Morgan, tugging fiercely now to get the gun from me.
“No,” I panted; “you shall not.”
“I must, boy. There: hark at them. I shall be too late. Look, boy; run for your life. I’ll wait till I see you over the big fence first.”
“No,” I panted again; “you shall not.”
“Will you run for your life?”
“No!” I cried, as I seemed to see my helpless father stretching out his hands to me.
“Then I must have it,” cried Morgan, fiercely, and as we knelt together, he twisted the gun in one direction, then in the other; and, boy as I was in strength, in another moment he would have torn it from my grasp, when a great black hand darted from just behind me, caught Morgan by the throat, forced him back, and with a cry of triumph I dragged away the piece, and fired it right away from the powder.