After the terrible battle in which the Sokokis were nearly destroyed, a remnant of the tribe, with their chief, Chocorua, fled into the fastnesses of these mountains, where the foot of a white man had never intruded. Here they trapped the beaver, speared the salmon, and hunted the moose.
The survivors of Lovewell’s band brought the first news of their disaster to the settlements. More like spectres than living men, their haggard looks, bloodshot eyes, and shaking limbs, their clothing hanging about them in shreds, announced the hardships of that long and terrible march but too plainly.
Among those who had set out with the expedition were three brothers—one a mere stripling, the others famous hunters. The eldest of the three, having fallen lame on the second day, was left behind. His brethren would have conducted him back to the nearest village, but he promptly refused their proffered aid, saying,
“’ Tis enough to lose one man; three are too many. Go; do my part as well as your own.”
The two had gone but a few steps when the disabled ranger called the second brother back.
“Tom,” said the elder, “take care of our brother.”
“Surely,” replied the other, in some surprise. “Surely,” he repeated.
“I charge you,” continued the first speaker, “watch over the boy as I would myself.”
“Never fear, Lance; whatever befalls Hugh happens to me.”
“Not so,” said the other, with energy; “you must die for him, if need be.”