with their
mingled howlings and yellings, might strike the Indians with such a
panic as to send them scampering, helter-skelter, down the hill, with
never a glance behind them to see what manner of varmints they had at
their heels--a man, or bogey, or devil. Thus, by a bloodless victory,
might they accomplish the chief object of their adventure--the rescue of
their little master; though, to the Fighting Nigger's taste, a victory
without blood were but as a dram without alcohol, gingerbread without
ginger, dancing without fiddling--insipid entertainment. This brilliant
stratagem, smacking more of Burlman Reynolds's lively fancy than of the
Fighting Nigger's slower judgment, was another thought scarce worth the
second thinking. After all their trouble, they might gain the rear of
the enemy's hill only to find the camp deserted, the Indians by that
time well into their canoes, far out on the broad Ohio, paddling
peacefully for "home, sweet home." Or, finding the enemy still there,
they might not find the woods and thickets to ambush in and burst out
from in the startling, overwhelming manner proposed, as the back of the
hill might be as bare of trees and bushes as the grassy breast before
him.

What, then, was to be done? O that treacherous, that thievish sleep,
which had robbed him of his golden chance! Should he perish in the
attempt to rescue his little master, what a sad account should he have
to render the dead father of the sacred trust confided to him under a
promise so solemn and binding! Or, should his little master, in spite of
his utmost efforts, be borne away into lasting captivity, how could he
return to tell the widowed mother that she was childless, though the
dear one, henceforth to be mourned as dead, had not yet gone to the dead
father? O that he had not slept! And with the big tears in his eyes,
bespeaking the dumb anguish of his heart, the poor fellow turned to take
another and a seventh survey of the valley, if haply he might not spy
out some feature of the ground which, hitherto unnoted and favoring
concealment, might enable him, without too great risk of detection, to
come at the enemy and the dear object of his adventure.

The seventh essay--as the seventh essay so often does--resulted in
bringing the fortunate turn. Suddenly a look, first of recognition, then
of glad surprise, made light all over that huge black face. Fetching his
thigh a mighty blow of the fist, the Fighting Nigger, abruptly and