The legend ran that Wyanota's family
was descended from the offspring of this marriage, and I think Wyn more
than half believed the story.
I passed on, and going into the next room found the pistols, carried them
back to my own chamber, and loaded them carefully. I was quite accustomed
to the use of firearms. There had been times in my life when I never sat
down to my work or went to rest without having rifle or pistol within easy
reach of my hand. When I had loaded the weapons, I put them on the table
by my bed and lay down again. My excitement seemed to have subsided, and I
was just falling asleep when I heard a door in the kitchen violently burst
open. I thought the wind had done it, and waited a moment to hear if the
Panther would rise and shut it.
The next instant there was a shot, a wild cry as of mingled pain and fury,
the sound of a heavy fall and a struggle. Before I had well realized that
the noise was in the house, I found myself at the kitchen door with my
pistols in my hand. I was greatly startled, but my one idea was to help my
old friend. The miserable door resisted me for a moment. Seconds passed
that seemed hours. When at last I tore it open, I saw a man in his shirt
sleeves lying dead on the floor, his head shattered 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.
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