But at this juncture the sound of human yells rose above the yelps of the dogs, and a moment later a volley was poured indiscriminately into their ranks. With howls of pain the canines recoiled from their victim; then a few more shots sent them howling through the woods.
More dead than alive, Cromer was lifted from the ground by the rescuing Indians, who uttered cries of triumph when they recognized him.
It was plain to them that a man so badly mangled would not live to reach the village, so they decided upon immediate torture.
With one ear gone—the ear afterward picked up on the field of battle by Hondurah—an arm and side lacerated by the sharp teeth and claws of the brutes, and otherwise injured, Doc Cromer was in no condition to fight his executioners; but notwithstanding all this, he staggered to his feet, called for a knife and dared his red foes to mortal combat.
“Doc Cromer kin whip a nation of skunks, yit,” he cried. “If ye don’t b’lieve it, come at ’im an’ try. I don’t thank ye a cussid bit for savin’ of my life. I’d sooner die among real dogs than counterfeit ones.”
He said this in a great measure to irritate his foes. He was suffering unspeakable pain, and forgetting the ring which the blood covered, he hoped that a tomahawk might terminate his existence. But the blow did not come.
After a brief consultation two Indians ascended a tree and lowered a rude rope, which was fastened about the trader’s body. Then he was drawn up among the branches, until he was near fifty feet above terra firma.
“Injuns leave trader here now,” said one of the braves, as they lashed him to the limbs. “By ’m by big birds come and pick holes in his body. Trader ’feared to die?”
“Not much,” was the response. “Men hez to peg out some time, and my time ar’ hyar now.”
He would speak no more; he left the taunts of the savages unanswered, until, while tying his feet, one shot in his face an epithet that sent the hot blood to the remotest recesses of his brain.