A Soldier of Manhattan and his adventures at Ticonderoga and Quebec
Book Description
This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1899. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER XL A FLIGHT AND A FIGHT. "He is dead, Zebedee! Look, he is covered with blood! We were too late!" "Dead nothin'! Drag him up an' give him a good shake! Hurry! we've got to be quick!" Culve...
MoreThis historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1899. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER XL A FLIGHT AND A FIGHT. "He is dead, Zebedee! Look, he is covered with blood! We were too late!" "Dead nothin'! Drag him up an' give him a good shake! Hurry! we've got to be quick!" Culverhouse's strong hand was in the collar of my hunting shirt. He jerked me to a sitting posture, and shook me so violently that he shook all the dizziness out of me. "Grab your gun," said Zebedee, "an' come on! We was just in time then, an' we've got to run for it yet." The boy was rapidly reloading his rifle as he spoke, and I dimly comprehended what had happened. The dead Indian lying at my feet with a clean round hole in his temple was sufficient explanation. I seized my rifle, and, shuddering as I took a last look at the fallen warrior, darted away to the south, close behind Zebedee and Culverhouse. "You have him to thank for not being in the Indian's place," said Culverhouse between panting breaths, and nodding at Zebedee. "It was one of the neatest shots I ever saw, and at long range, too." Then he asked Zeb what he meant to do. The boy made no reply. Culverhouse repeated the question. "Shut up!" said Zeb. "This ain't no time to bother me with questions." "You must not talk to me in that manner," said Culverhouse with some choler. "I am an officer, and I am older than you." "Shut up, I tell you!" repeated Zeb emphatically. "Just now I'm more'n a hundred years older than you are." Culverhouse asked no more questions. When we had run about a half mile, we stopped for a moment on the crest of a little hill. Then we heard a cry, shrill and rising higher and higher, until its piercing note seemed to fill the wilderness. Then it sank down in a long, throbbing quaver. The cry expressed triumph and anger, and was of such uncanny tone that I could not repress a shiver. "Good...
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