“Heavens, child! Abuse the rifle all you will!”
“It was abuse of you and of all that your rifle stood for. I mocked you because you were from the border. Poor father! He knew many Indians, but he did not understand them. Town ways seem mighty small and of no account now.”
“Patsy, you must get a grip on yourself. We must get clear of this village at once. We must get back to Virginia.”
She shivered and her eyes dilated as she stared at me and she muttered:
“I dread the woods, the silence, the darkness. The wolves howling at night. Worst of all is the creeping horror of being chased. No! No! I can’t stand any more, Basdel. The black horror comes over me when I let myself think of it. The dank woods—the silence—the awful stealth of night. No, no, Basdel. Let me die here.”
“Patsy, grip yourself! You can’t stay among these beggars. They think you are insane. That’s why they’ve spared you. But there’s going to be a battle soon. If they win they’ll bring many prisoners here. You must not be here then.”
She interrupted me with a little heart-broken cry and clapped her hands to her eyes to blot out some horrid picture. It was harsh, but the way she was inclining led to permanent madness.
“We will steal away and make the Ohio. The Indians are busy planning for the big battle. They’ll not spare many men to seek us. I will take you back to Virginia and across the mountains.”
“Or we will both die,” she whispered. “That wouldn’t be bad. To die and be out of it all—But I mustn’t speak for you, Basdel.”
“You speak for both of us,” I comforted. “Death isn’t terrible. This is.” And I swept my hand in a half-circle at the Shawnee wigwams forming the village. “Say nothing to Cousin’s sister. I will make my plans at once. A gun, some powder and lead, and then we will go.”