He liked to live on
dirt, the dirtier the place he could find the better; he'd rather
steal his food than get it honestly; he wuz sech a coward that he
wuz afeard o' a rabbit, but ef your back wuz turned to him he'd
nip you in the ankle. But bad ez that dog wuz, Braxton, he wuz a
gentleman 'longside o' you."
Some of the Indians understood English, and Wyatt knew it. He
snatched a pistol from his belt, and was about to strike Sol with
the butt of it, but a tall figure suddenly appeared before him,
and made a commanding gesture. The gesture said plainly: "Do
not strike; put that pistol back!" Braxton Wyatt, whose soul was
afraid within him, did not strike, and he put the pistol back.
It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots,
who with his little detachment had proved that day how mighty the
Wyandot warriors were, full equals of Thayendanegea's Mohawks,
the Keepers of the Western Gate. He was bare to the waist. One
shoulder was streaked with blood from a slight wound, but his
countenance was not on fire with passion for torture and
slaughter like those of the others.
"There is no need to strike prisoners," he said in English.
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