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The Indians afoot could not catch him, no bullet caught him; he would make it he would make it; there he goes, up the hill. He was safe but was he? He had planned to reach another fort: Van Metre's Fort, a block-house beyond the hill.
Their sheepishness provoked us to laughter when we learned the true reason for all the bother. But it brought home to us the extreme danger of falling foul of such a panicky mob. The military reservation was fenced off from our quarters by barbed wire. The rule ran that no prisoner on either side of the barrier was to advance within a metre's distance about one yard of the fence.
He saw that Sam was dead; the Indians were yelling and as quick as thought he had sprung to his brother's horse, and was away, to give the alarm at Van Metre's. He looked back. The Indians were flocking into the trail, and one was about to scalp Sam. John drew rein, threw his rifle to his shoulder, the ball sped true. That Indian took no scalp. John reached Van Metre's.
They made a circuit west, almost down to Wheeling, and on July 30 were circuiting back by way of Short Creek, for Van Metre's again, without having discovered a single track, when from the bushes half a dozen guns opened on them. Major Sam wilted in his seat and fell to the ground dead. John's horse crumpled under him, dead also, but he himself was wounded only by a scratch across his hip.
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