I was nearing the gate again, the dust flying from my moccasined feet, the sight of the stalwart Tom giving me courage again. Suddenly, with the deftness of a panther, an Indian shot forward and lifted me high in his arms. To this day I recall my terror as I dangled in mid-air, staring into a hideous face. By intuition I kicked him in the stomach with all my might, and with a howl of surprise and rage his fingers gripped into my flesh. The next thing I remember was being in the dust, suffocated by that odor which he who has known it can never forget. A medley of discordant cries was in my ears. Then I was snatched up, bumped against heads and shoulders, and deposited somewhere. Now it was Tom's face that was close to mine, and the light of a fierce anger was in his blue eyes.
“Did they hurt ye, Davy?” he asked.
I shook my head. Before I could speak he was at the gate again, confronting the mob of savages that swayed against the fence, and the street was filled with running figures. A voice of command that I knew well came from behind me. It was Colonel Clark's.
“Stay where you are, McChesney!” he shouted, and Tom halted with his hand on the latch.
“With your permission, I will speak to them,” said Monsieur Gratiot, who had come out also.
I looked up at him, and he was as calm as when he had joked with me a quarter of an hour since.
“Very well,” said Clark, briefly.
Monsieur Gratiot surveyed them scornfully.
“Where is the Hungry Wolf, who speaks English?” he said.
There was a stir in the rear ranks, and a lean savage with abnormal cheek bones pushed forward.