“They made him eat his ears, an’ then, with dull knives, they skinned him alive.”
Despite his manhood, Oliver Blount shuddered.
“I saw that done,” continued Bell, “an’ the hellion who proposed it swore this night to hunt us down.”
“I know who you mean—Jules Bardue.”
“Yes, it was he.”
The thought of ‘Jack’ Senior’s fate, and their own peril caused the trio to drop the unpalatable conversation, and for a long time they skirted the shores of Cahokia creek in silence. Far above them the stars twinkled with a dimmed luster, as if they were sorrowing for the work falling from the hands of the demon Devastation, stalking over the Eden land of the Illinois.
Oliver Blount walked along with bowed head—repenting, when too late, of his stubbornness. Had he listened to reason at that hour he and his daughter might have been safe behind the protecting walls of Fort Chartres; but now she was a fugitive from Indian vengeance, and he rushing to death in the attempt to save her young life. He trusted to his more watchful companions to warn him of the presence of foes, and suddenly that warning came in the click of their rifles.
“What is it?” he asked in a whisper.
“Down!” returned the giant.
They crouched in the weeds that lined the bank of the little stream, and the footsteps of a single person approached them from the recesses of the forest.