The savages recoiled before him. They had felt the power of the giant hunter’s iron arm before.
The dull thud, of the hunter’s club, accompanied with a yell, told how fearful and deadly was his work.
“Away, demons o’ fury, away!” he shouted; “down to the brimstone pit—the sulphurious region!”
The savages wavered, rallied again and strove hard to beat down Old Tumult, but in vain. He seemed to bear a charmed life.
Finally the savages gave way, and took to the cover of the forest, leaving a number of dead and dying comrades behind.
The settlers did not pursue the fleeing enemy. They were glad enough to get rid of them, and at once turned their attention to their own dead and dying comrades.
A frightful spectacle was now presented to the gaze of the settlers. A score of savages lay killed and wounded upon the grassy lawn, and among them, with their heads cloven, lay several of the settlers dead, and several wounded. The women and children, with a few exceptions, had fled into the forest at the commencement of the attack. Thus, a new fear for their safety now preyed upon the minds of the settlers.
When the battle was over, Old Tumult, to whom the settlers gave the credit of defeating the red-skins, leaned his tall, gaunt form upon his heavy rifle, and gazed silently over the scene before him, with a sad look upon his hard, stony features.
“Ah, me! ah, me!” he sighed, heavily, “if I’d ’a’ known all, this ’ere would never ’a’ been, friends.”
“Yes, if any of us had dreamed of such an attack being planned, we might have prevented it,” said the Reverend Paul Earnshaw.