“We will lift a peace-pipe to our good friend, the Pack-Horse-Man. We will cover his friends with the smoke. Let him tell his friends not to be afraid and to throw down their guns.”
Dale was sure of Granville’s and the Englishman’s behavior, and he addressed his warning to Cousin and me, calling on us in a stentorian voice to offer no resistance if we valued our lives. He ended by yelling:
“Catahecassa, war-chief of the Shawnees, spares your lives.”
Without giving us time to speak, he waved a hand and commanded:
“It’s all right, Patricia! Come out!”
“Stay where you are!” I screamed, my voice muffled by the four stout walls. I jumped to tear the bar from the door, but Cousin hurled me aside, panting:
“Too late! God! To think such a woman should walk into their bloody trap!”
His words sent me to the loophole. Patricia Dale was walking composedly toward her father, her slim hands holding up her belts. She winced as she passed the lick-block and got a glimpse of the dead savage and the dead dog. Then her gaze remained steady on her father’s calm face.
Black Hoof said something, but there was a pounding in my ears which prevented me from hearing it. I guessed it, though, when Dale called out:
“All you who would be spared come out and leave your guns behind!”