“Back, Kate, back!” shouted Oliver Blount, waving her aloof. “You can escape the fiends!”
But she did not heed his voice, for she came on, faster than ever, and with a joyful cry, in the presence of the painted denizens of the wood, she sunk upon the bosom where she had pillowed her head so oft in happier days.
“Kate, my own Kate!” cried Oliver Blount, in a voice tremulous with a father’s emotion; and then he looked through his tears to the giant as if to say: “Doc Bell, we’ll live for my daughter.”
The giant understood that mute appeal. He dropped his rifle to the ground, and caused the blade of his scalping-knife to quiver in the bark of the tree.
“I’m goin’ to live fur the gal—fur Kate,” he cried, glancing at his protege, who had followed his example. “That gal ar’ too brave to die, an’ suthin’ might turn up.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll stand by Kate Blount, so long as we have life left,” said Somerville, and his lustrous eyes, dimmed by the meeting of father and child, wandered to the beautiful owner of that name whom he had long in secret, and late, openly, loved.
Oliver Blount released his child after a moment’s fond embrace, and his action broke the spell which had bound the rude red horde.
They started forward, not with uplifted weapons, but with empty hands, to take possession of their prisoners, for they could not mistake the meaning of the quivering knife and grounded rifle.
“Yes, we’re yours,” said Doc Bell, addressing the Indians, as he held forth his arms to receive the twisted sinews; “an’ ye may thank yer Manitou that this gal came when she did. She’s saved many a life to-day, she hez; an’ we’re goin’ to stan’ by her through thick an’ thin. Come, Bob, don’t pervoke the Injun; act decently, ef it ar’ ag’in’ the grain. ’Tain’t the first time we war tied.”
The young scout was about to strike a fierce young Ojibwa who had spat in his face, but the giant’s words unclinched his hand, and he told the red-man that they would meet again.