Читать книгу Forest Glen; or, The Mohawk's Friendship онлайн

20 страница из 41

Cal Holdness had come over to take supper with them; and, having despatched the meal, they were variously occupied.

The mother was undressing Eddie, and the youngest child was asleep in the cradle. Cal's rifle was out of order; and he had brought it with him, that Harvey might repair it. He laid the weapon across his knees, and proceeded to take off the lock, Cal holding a lighted sliver of pitch-wood to give him light. It was a sultry night, and the house, built of hewn timber, excessively warm. The doors and bullet-proof shutters being closed, there was no ventilation except by means of the chimney, and the loop-holes which were only large enough to admit the barrel of a rifle. Honeywood, noticing the drops of perspiration on the face of his wife, said,—

"Sarah, I've a good mind to open the door: see how that child in the cradle sweats, and you are well-nigh roasted. If I open the door 'twill make a good draught up the chimney, and cool the house off for the night."

"Don't, husband, I beg of you: it's just the time of year when Indians are most likely to come; we've just heard that they've been killing people at Shamakin. It's not long since they took Fort Granville, and killed all the garrison but one; and this very day you've been telling the neighbors that we ought to go into the fort, and not wait to reap the grain first; and now you want to open the door, and there may be a dozen Indians around it. Have you forgotten that this very last spring Mr. Maccoy's family were sitting one evening with the door open, and an Indian was creeping up to it, when the Black Rifle shot him, or they would all have been murdered? I know it's warm, but I had rather bear the heat than have you open the door."