Major Waldron was pleased to hear it, for trade with the Indians always meant a good bargain to the white man.
"Supposing we should want to go out in the night, how shall we open the door?" asked the squaws.
They are shown how to undo the fastenings.
MAJOR WALDRON'S TERRIBLE FIGHT.
Major Waldron is eighty years of age, white-haired, wrinkled, but there is force yet left in his arm, and he is as courageous as ever. He has no fear of any Indian that walks the earth, and the vague rumors and whisperings of an uprising are as idle as the wind to him. He lies down to sleep. The lights in all the houses are extinguished. No sentinel walks the street. In the darkness dusky forms glide noiselessly through the town. The doors of the houses open. The terrible war-whoop breaks the stillness of the summer night. A half-dozen Indians burst into the room where the brave old man is sleeping. He springs from the bed, seizes his sword, and single-handed drives them from his chamber into the large room. In the darkness one steals behind him, strikes a blow, and he falls. It is their hour of triumph. He has been a ruler and a judge. The Indians can be sarcastic. They seat him in his arm-chair, lift him upon the table. It is his throne.
"Get us supper," is their command to the family.
They eat, and then turn to their bloody work. One by one they slash their knives across his breast.
"So I cross out my account," they say. They are settling an account that has been standing thirteen long years.
An Indian cuts off one hand. "Where are the scales? Let us see if it weighs a pound."