The men managed to enter the fort
in safety, but the gallant major, being unluckily separated
from his band, was left alone outside.
His was a terribly critical situation. Fortunately, the
Indians knew him for one of their most daring and skillful
enemies, and hated him intensely. Fortunately, we say, for
to that he owed his life. They could easily have killed him,
but not a man of them would fire. Such a foeman must not die
so easily; he must end his life in flame and torture. Such
was their unspoken argument, and they dashed after him with
yells of exultation, satisfied that they had one of their
chief foes safely in their hands.
It seemed so, indeed. The major was well mounted, but the
swift Indian runners managed to surround him on three sides,
and force him towards the river bluffs, from which escape
seemed impossible.
With redoubled shouts they closed in upon him. The major,
somewhat ignorant of the situation, pushed onward till he
suddenly found himself on the brow of a precipice which
descended at an almost vertical inclination for a hundred
and fifty feet. Here was a frightful dilemma. To right and
left the Indian runners could be seen, their lines extending
to the verge of the cliff. What was to be done? surrender
to the Indians, attempt to dash through their line, or leap
the cliff? Each way promised death.
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