Mr. Langston held Dicey’s hand, and all fixed their eyes on the kettle, and as the first slender trickle of steam came from its nose, Dicey caught it from the iron arm, and soon had two fragrant glasses of hot wine ready for the travellers.
“Now, father,” she said, as she seated herself at his knee,—“now, father, the news!”
“’Tis true, Dicey, that at Gowan’s Fort many of our people have been horribly murdered.”
“Oh, father, not by Indians,” cried the girl, who well knew what this would mean.
“By worse than Indians,” answered Mr. Langston,—“by white men painted as Indians, who were even more cruel than the savages, if that can be.”
Dicey sprang to her feet and turned to her brother.
“Do you know if ‘Bloody Bates’ had anything to do with this, Henry?”
“Yes, he was the leader, and it is said that he boasted that his next raid should be in the country of the Enoree, where he said ‘dwelt so many fat Whigs.’”
“Just let him come this way,” cried Dicey, “and he will find that the fat Whigs are ready for him.”
Even though the case was grave enough, Henry and his father could not forbear a smile at the thought of Dicey, little Dicey, setting up as a match for the cruel bully who had made himself such a terror to the country-side by his midnight maraudings and treacherous killings that he had come to bear the name of “Bloody Bates.”