“Tell my brothers or my father.”
“The Indians would not obey them: they believe what I told them, that I have given you my medicine. If Morton is not saved this week, he dies.”
“If our men beat the Yankees will they not rescue him?”
“Yankees would shoot him before they would let him escape, and they will hang him if they retreat. They have let him live hoping to get me; when they know they cannot, they will kill him.”
Maggie shuddered. “And what am I to do?”
Hemlock answered: “The Indian has a good hand but a poor head. When they come and tell you they have found where Morton is kept, you will order them when and how to make the attack and into the messenger’s hand you will press this medicine, and tell him it will make success sure.” Here he took a pouch from his breast and selected a small package—something sewed up in a bit of bird’s skin.
“I hope you will live to save your friend yourself,” said Maggie.
Hemlock gloomily shook his head, and rising walked towards the door, which he opened and stepped out into the cheerless night. Maggie followed and looked out. She could see nothing: he was gone. That night she rested all the more comfortably, from knowing that within hail was a faithful band of Indians.