He had barely spoken before the Englishman’s voice excitedly called:
“You two scouts in there.”
I gave him heed and he informed me: “Granville and his sister say they are going out. Do you go out?”
“We shall stay here. It’s better for you to die where you are,” I told him.
“Ay, I think it’s better myself. Well, I’m old and hungry to be with the children again.”
The Englishman was a brave man, and very sensible. He recognized Fate when it paused to stare him in the eye. My companion was panting for breath and was standing back so as to rest the muzzle of his rifle just inside the loophole. A glance revealed his deadly purpose. A tall warrior was now on his feet. I knew him to be Black Hoof. I had seen him at Fort Pitt during one of those rare lulls between wars.
Cousin was fairly out of his head with the lust to kill the chief, but the Shawnee took no chances. He was careful to keep the girl and her father between him and the cabins. I pushed Cousin’s gun aside and fiercely upbraided him for placing the Dales’ lives in jeopardy.
“You fool!” he cried. “They’re gone already. Are you, too, blind? If you love that gal out there and want to do her the greatest kindness a man can ever do to a border woman, shoot her!”
Granville began shouting:
“Me ’n’ my sister are comin’ out. We surrender. Tell ’em, Mr. Dale! God knows ’nough blood’s been spilt.”