on Mordecai and released Towerculla, who rose
from the dust, his face terrible in his anger. Mordecai struggled in
vain against the blows of Towerculla's followers. As he sank to the
ground overpowered, he caught himself murmuring, "They cannot kill me,
until we three say grace together again," even while he longed for
death to cut short the agony which was beginning to wrack every limb
of his cruelly beaten body. Then out of the mist of red which seemed
to swim before his eyes, a merciful black cloud descended and he knew
nothing more until he regained consciousness and found himself in "Old
Milly's" cabin, with Becky, still calm of face and quiet of voice
bathing his wounds with cool water from the spring.

"What has happened?" he asked, trying to rise, but falling back
moaning in his pain.

"Old Milly," a tall, sharp-faced woman, who sat weaving a basket as
skillfully as any squaw, answered him. "Towerculla would have slain
you, had not Becky brought me in time. He is not a good enemy to have,
Abram Mordecai. When you are stronger, you must take his advice and go
away. The Indians did not burn the barn, so your horses are safe, but
the house was in flames before I could reach it and persuade
Towerculla to leave you in peace."

Becky rose and walked to the table. Returning to where her husband
lay, she placed in his hand three books with worn black covers and a
faded red napkin. "I ran and got these when I saw they were destroying
our cabin," she told him. "I knew you had kept them long; that they
were dear to you as the gods of our people are to us--like a charm,
maybe, to keep death away. And perhaps, when the white men come again,
you will want to have them on the table and sing."

For the moment, Mordecai forgot that Becky was only a squaw,
undeserving, according to the custom of her people, either thanks or
praise. "You are a very good wife," he said, gently, "and I will buy
you real gold earrings with the first money I earn from the cotton
gin." And since he was so weak, neither woman dared to tell him for
several days that the vengeance of the Indians had extended to the gin
house, which now lay a heap of black ruins hear the river.

Broken in body and ruined in fortune, Mordecai accompanied by the
faithful Becky, bade farewell to Colonel Hawkins and journeyed further
into the wilderness. For the Indian agent prudently refused to erect
a second gin while the Indians still planned to injure Mordecai, and
t