At the critical moment, Bradford rushed among the braves, and flinging them right and left, thundered in the Indian tongue:
“Hold, you mad devils! Would you overpower and murder a man who has fought bravely for his life? Harm not a hair of his head, or your lives shall pay the penalty. He is my prisoner.”
Bending down, he assisted Douglas to arise. As soon as he could speak, the young man called to the bloodhound:
“Here, Duke! Down—down, I say!”
The obedient animal left the savage with whom he was struggling, and crouched at his master’s feet—panting, whining, and rolling his blood-rimmed eyes. The Indians drew apart a short distance, grunting and grumbling in a surly and threatening manner. For a full minute the two white men stood looking at each other. Douglas’s chest was still heaving from his recent exertions; and his words came brokenly:
“You saved my life. I thank you for it! But I’d rather you had left me to my fate.”
“Why?” Bradford asked coolly.
“Because I don’t like to be under obligations to a traitor,” Ross replied boldly.
The younger man expected to see the older’s face pale with anger. But a smile actually rested upon Bradford’s scarred visage, as he returned calmly: