“Hah! ye dirty polecat,” he cried, throwing his club at the eyes with all his force.
Never was there a worse aim or a better shot! The club flew high into the air and would have fallen some fifty yards or more wide of the mark, had it not touched the limb of a tree in passing. It glanced obliquely down, and, striking the owner of the eyes between the shoulders felled him to the earth.
Larry sprang upon him with a yell of triumph, but the yell was changed into a howl of consternation when he made the discovery that he had knocked down, if not killed, one of the principal chiefs of the village! To say that poor O’Hale wrung his hands, and wished bad luck to fightin’ in general, and to himself in particular, gives but a feeble idea of the distress of his mind at this untoward event.
“D’ye think I’ve kilt him intirely, doctor dear?” he asked of Will Osten, who was on his knees beside the fallen chief examining his hurt.
“No, not quite. See, he breathes a little. Come, Larry, the moment he shows symptoms of reviving we must bolt. Of course he knows who knocked him down, and will never forgive us.”
“That’s true, O murther!” exclaimed Larry, with a mingled look of contrition and anxiety.
“Depend upon it they’ll kill us all,” continued Osten.
“And bake an’ ait us,” groaned Larry.
“Come,” said Will, rising hastily as the stunned chief began to move, “we’ll go search for our comrades.”
They hurried away, but not before the chief had risen on one elbow and shaken his clenched fist at them, besides displaying a terrible double row of teeth, through which he hissed an unintelligible malediction.