That Tom was one of the actors was plain enough, for his words came loud, clear, and angry to where we stood; and it was evident that he was taking the part of one of the Indian girls, who was weeping, probably from blows inflicted by one of her countrymen, whose gallantry is not proverbial.
“You red varmint,” cried Tom fiercely, “I’ll let you know what’s what! We don’t strike women in our country—no, not even if they hit us.”
Interested as I was, the recollection of a sharp slap I had heard at home would come to my memory.
“And I tell you what, if you touch her again I’ll make that face of yours a prettier colour than it is now.”
“Pray go and tell my father,” whispered Lilla anxiously. “Quarrels here are very serious sometimes, and end in loss of life.”
Crack! There was the sound of a blow followed by a woman’s shriek of pain.
“Why, you cowardly hound!” I heard Tom shout. “You dare hit her, then—you who sneaked off along with your grand Spanish Don when the boat was upset, and left young miss to drown! You’re a brave one, you are, and then you all go and take the credit, when it was my Mas’r Harry who saved her. Take that, you beggar, and that—and that!”
Tom’s words were accompanied by the sounds of heavy blows; and on leaping out of the window I came upon him, squaring away, and delivering no meanly-planted blows upon the chests and faces of a couple of Indians, while a woman crouched, trembling and weeping, and writhing with pain, upon the ground.
“That’s a settler for you anyhow!” said Tom, as he sent one of his adversaries staggering back for a few yards, to fall heavily, when the other retreated, but only for both to out with a knife each, and again come forward to the attack.
But my appearance upon the scene stayed them, and they slunk scowling away.