As young as she was—a mere child in years—Kate Blount had imbibed to no little degree her father’s resentful nature, and it was with great difficulty that the creole wrenched from her the pistol which had flashed from her bosom to avenge the insult he had offered.
To what violence his passion might have led we can only guess, for from among the shadows of the forest trees a veritable giant sprung upon him; strong arms encircled him, and, before he could think with calmness, he found himself stripped and bound to a tree. Kate Blount had suddenly disappeared, and before him stood her irate father, armed with a bundle of switches. Jules Bardue did not beg for mercy; he was not that kind of a man. On the contrary he gritted his teeth until sixty terrible blows had stripped the flesh from his back, and he was unbound and hurled almost senseless to the ground.
The next morning the creole, or Frenchman as he was called by many, did not make his appearance at Sir William’s lodge; nor was he ever seen near it again. He feared the wrath of Oliver Blount, and had left the country for his own and the country’s good.
He fled to the new Illinois; lived at Cahokia awhile, then joined the Pottawatomies, and became their Yellow Chief. He knew that Oliver Blount intended to emigrate to the Illinois country sometime, and the Yellow Chief’s frequent incursions into that Paradise told that he watched and waited for father and daughter—for his revenge.
Fully thirty paces from trader Blount’s cottage the Indians watched the progress of their devilish work, and when they beheld the flames licking up the door with their forked tongues, they exchanged “ughs” of supreme satisfaction. The besieged would not permit themselves to be roasted to death, and every minute the dusky demons expected to hear the submissive cry. A cordon of braves encircled the cottage thus cutting off the retreat of the doomed ones.
But while this was transpiring, a merciful Providence was interposing a saving hand, for a suddenly-gathered storm-cloud burst over the cottage; the gates of the upper deep opened, and threatened to deluge every thing.
The superstitious Indians, surprised and alarmed at this sudden burst of lightning and rain, left their stations and gathered around the wounded chief.
Despite his wounds, Segowatha sprung to his feet.
“Back to your places, braves!” he yelled, facing the shrinking savages with drawn tomahawk. “The Manitou merely waters the earth, and he will smile soon.”
Sullenly the warriors returned to their posts, and again the cottage was encircled by the tomahawk and scalping-knife.