apparently by a blow
from the axe: another, a large, powerful Irishman, was kneeling on the
Panther's breast, with his hands at the old man's throat.

I sprang forward, but something swifter than I darted past me with a
savage cry, and, tearing and biting with claws and teeth, flung itself
full at the ruffian's face and naked throat. It was our big old brindle
cat, Tom, roused from his place before the fire. The unexpected fierceness
of Tom's assault took the man quite by surprise. Before he could tear the
creature away I had the pistol at his head.

"If you move," I said, "I'll kill you;" for, as I saw that my old friend
was hurt, wrath took the place of fear.

He gave in directly. Indeed the cat, a large, powerful animal, had almost
scratched his eyes out. In the most abject tones the fellow implored me to
let him go.

"Don't you do it, mamma," said the Panther, faintly.

"I don't mean to," I said.

Under the kitchen stairs was a dark closet with a strong outside bolt. I
ordered the man into this place. He obeyed, and I drew the bolt upon him.
His face and throat were streaming with blood from Tom's teeth and claws.

All this passed in much less time than it takes to tell it. Roused by the
noise, the children, and Minny with the baby in her arms, were already in
the kitchen.

"Oh, my dear, my poor darling!" said Minny, kneeling by the old man's
side, "you are hurt!"

"Yes," he said, quietly, "pretty considerable bad. Charley, you fasten
that door;" for the door into the shed, which had been secured only by a
button, was wide open. "You get the hammer and two, three big nails, and
drive 'em in," he continued. "Maybe more them darn scamps round."

Charley obeyed directions in a way which did him credit. Little Ned, with
wide, surprised eyes, clung to me in silence; little Carry, seeing her
mother in tears, put up a piteous lip and sobbed in her unbaby-like,
sorrowful fashion; the old cat, in great excitement, went purring and
talking from one to another.

"Tell me where you are hurt," I said, holding the chief's hand.

He had been shot through the stomach with a great, old-fashioned
smooth-bore musket, which lay on the floor--a gun not carrying less than
twenty-five to the pound. I had seen gunshot wounds before, and I knew
that this was serious. It did not bleed much externally, but the edges of
the wound were torn and discolored.

"That fellow dead?" asked the Panther.

"Yes indeed!" for the man's hea