Mabel now comprehended the intention of June, and no longer opposed it. The latter thrust the muzzle of the rifle through the loophole; and, taking care to make noise enough to attract attraction, she pulled the trigger. The piece had no sooner been discharged than Mabel reproached her friend for the very act that was intended to serve her.
“You declared it was not your intention to fire,” she said, “and you may have destroyed your own husband.”
“All run away before I fire,” returned June, laughing, and going to another loop to watch the movements of her friends, laughing still heartier. “See! get cover—every warrior. Think Saltwater and Quartermaster here. Take good care now.”
“Heaven be praised! And now, June, I may hope for a little time to compose my thoughts to prayer, that I may not die like Jennie, thinking only of life and the things of the world.”
June laid aside the rifle, and came and seated herself near the box on which Mabel had sunk, under that physical reaction which accompanies joy as well as sorrow. She looked steadily in our heroine's face, and the latter thought that her countenance had an expression of severity mingled with its concern.
“Arrowhead great warrior,” said the Tuscarora's wife. “All the girls of tribe look at him much. The pale-face beauty has eyes too?”
“June!—what do these words—that look—imply? what would you say?”
“Why you so 'fraid June shoot Arrowhead?”
“Would it not have been horrible to see a wife destroy her own husband? No, June, rather would I have died myself.”
“Very sure, dat all?”