But the noble warrior did not stop. Striking right and left with his knife, he sprang up the steps into the midst of the women; and Mark, believing that it was his intention to attack them, yelled quite as loudly as the Indian.
“Hi! hi! Pull him down, fellows!” he shouted.
The hounds understood that yell; they had been waiting for it. As quick as thought one of them turned and sprang at his throat; the other seized him by the shoulder from behind, and the savage was thrown flat on his back—stretched as if he had been a “’coon.”
It was astonishing how quickly all the fight was shaken out of that ferocious Choctaw. He made one or two wild cuts at his assailants, then the knife dropped from his grasp and he lay like a log upon the porch. He was so still, and the blood flowed so freely from the numerous wounds he had received, that Mark became frightened and spoke to the hounds, which released their enemy very reluctantly. He never would have robbed any more dinner-tables if they had been allowed to have their own way with him.
“Ugh!” roared the Indian, when he found himself free from the teeth of the hounds. “Wh-o-o-p!”
He was not seriously injured; he had been “playing ’possum.” He raised himself to a sitting position and gazed about for a moment with a bewildered air, and then jumped to his feet, bounded down the steps and drew a beeline for camp at a rate of speed that made Mark open his eyes.
He did not stop to look for gates, or to let down bars. Whatever may have been that Indian’s claims to courage, he could certainly boast of being a swift runner and a most remarkable jumper.
“Oh, you awful boy! What have you done?” chorused all the visitors, as Mark entered the house.
“I’ve saved somebody from being hurt—that’s what I’ve done,” was the cool reply. “I am the only man about the house, and of course it was my duty to protect you.”
“But don’t you know that an Indian never forgives an injury? He will have revenge for that. He will come back here with his friends and kill and scalp us all.”