What! at the age of sixteen must he die a violent death, because a young Indian boy was sick, a victim to the cruel superstition of a band of savages?
“God help me!” he murmured, with pale lips. “For the sake of my dear mother and sister, save me from this fearful fate!”
“This is terrible!” ejaculated Peter Brush, while in his excitement the big drops of perspiration gathered on his brow. “Kill me, Mr. Indian, and let the boy live. He is young, and his life is worth more than mine.”
“No good!” said the Indian. “A boy is sick. A boy must die.”
“Mr. Brush,” said Tom gratefully, “I will never forget this unselfish offer. You have offered your life for mine. You are a true friend.”
“But the brutes won’t accept my offer,” said Peter Brush, bitterly. “They are bound to shed your innocent blood, my poor boy. If I only had my revolver here, and loaded, I would kill some of them, or my name isn’t Peter Brush.”
“Be careful what you say, or they will kill you, too,” said Tom, in a warning voice.
The interpreter stood aside. At a signal from the chief, two men advanced toward Tom. They took him up in their arms, and carried him to a young tree, of slender trunk, and deftly bound him with his back to the tree, facing toward the group.
“Are they going to kill Tom before our very eyes?” said Peter Brush, in a tone of horror.
“It is indeed terrible!” said Lycurgus Spooner, in a state of agitation almost as great.