As they poured over the bank, the cool and collected Delawares dispatched them with the tomahawk and scalping knife, and the crystal waters of the Neversink were colored with blood.
The victory was complete. Nearly all that had so silently floated down the river the night before, were now locked in the cold embrace of death, and as the sun set in the western horizon, and the earth became enshrouded in the mantle of night, death reigned in silence.
While the conflagration was going on, and while the flames, like forked arrows were hissing through the branches of the trees, and amid the groans of the wounded, burning and dying, which could be heard above the crackling of the falling wood, the tall, erect form of Cahoonshee appeared in the front ground, on the highest pinnacle of Point Peter, with Rolla standing by his side. Feelings of satisfaction and regret occupied his mind. Satisfaction that the murderers of his fathers were punished. Regret that the white man would seize upon this opportunity to appropriate the land to themselves.
The smoke lifted for a moment, and looking toward Mount William, he saw the forms of five dusky Salamanques crouching in the brush.
It is finished, he said. My time has come. But I will not die by the hands of the Salamanques. I will throw myself from these rocks, and be buried by my friends, the Delawares.
You die by the fagot—not by the fall! exclaimed a voice behind him.
Turning, he saw three tomahawks raised. To advance or retreat was impossible.
I am yours, exclaimed Cahoonshee. Do your pleasure.