When the big Indian fell, his comrades set up a fierce howl, for he seemed to be the leader of the band. Mr. Mellowtone fired next; but his aim was less certain than that of the hunter. For my own part, heedless of the howling savages, I stood behind the tree gazing at the prostrate form of old Matt. I wept bitterly, and should have thrown myself upon his body if Kit had not sternly commanded me not to move.
The savages were not long in discovering that all the advantage was on our side, and, with a ringing whoop, they turned their horses and retreated a short distance.
"They are unhossing theirselves," said Kit. "Don't move, boy!"
"Matt is shot!" I exclaimed. "I must go to him."
"Don't go, boy. You can't help him any now, and you mought git shot if you show yourself. Don't do it, boy."
"Is Matt dead?" I asked, trembling with emotion.
"Dead as a hammer," replied Kit. "He'll never move hisself again. Hold still, boy."
"He may be alive, and I want to do something for him," I insisted.
"He hain't moved since he dropped, and I know by the way he went over that it's all up with Matt. Don't throw your life away, boy."
"Poor Matt," sighed Mr. Mellowtone, from his position near us. "It is a sad day for him, and for us."
"Keep your eyes wide open, or some o' the rest on us will smell the ground," added Kit. "The redskins is gittin' down into the brook."
The savages retreated to a point on the stream, where they dismounted, evidently with the intention of crossing. They picketed their horses, and we judged that they meant to complete the work which they had begun.
"We must follow them up," continued Kit. "Boy, take Matt's rifle, and follow me."
I bent over the form of the fallen patriarch. I placed my hand upon his heart, but there was no answering throb. He was indeed dead, and my whole frame was shaken with convulsive grief.
"He is dead!" I groaned in bitterness of spirit.
"I know he is, boy; but we can't help it. We can't stop to cry now."
"Come, boy!" shouted Kit. "Bring his rifle, powder, and ball."
I wiped the tears from my eyes, but I could not banish the sorrow from my heart. Gently I raised the head of the old hunter, and removed the powder-horn and bullet-pouch which were suspended over his shoulder. Picking up the rifle, which lay near him on the ground, I followed my companions into the forest. I felt then that I could shoot an Indian without any remorse.