“Oh, Tom, Tom, I wish I’d left you with that swindling Jim Dobson. He would only have robbed you, while I have led you to your death.”
“You couldn’t help it, Mr. Brush,” said Tom, his lips quivering. “It is hard, but I’ll try to meet it.”
“You thought God was going to help you!” exclaimed Brush, bitterly.
“It is not too late yet. He may save me yet. But Mr. Brush, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What is it? I will do anything in my power, Tom.”
“And I too, my poor lad,” said Dr. Spooner.
“Write to my mother, and let her know that I am dead, but don’t let her know how I died. Let her think that I caught cold and died of a fever. She won’t feel so bad. There’s some money that I have in the —— bank, in New York. Let her know about that. They will give it to her, if she calls for it.”
“Yes, Tom, I will do it,” said Peter Brush, stifling a sob—“that is, if I live. I don’t think I can stand it to see those red devils kill you.”
While this conversation was going on the Indians remained quiet. Probably they understood that Tom was giving to his two friends the last messages he was ever to deliver, and a sense of propriety, possibly a feeling of sympathy, would not permit them to interfere.
For it must be remembered that they were about to kill Tom from no feeling of hostility, but merely because in their superstition they thought God required a sacrifice, and would in return restore the young chief to health.