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Richardson, John, 1796-1852

"Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare"


"Gone at last," he exclaimed, after a moment's pause,
"but with poor Collins' scalp along with them. Cass," he
added, as he sprang to the floor, "if that turkey is fit
to eat let's have it directly, and you, Weston, look
about and see if there is any more water to be had. Make
haste, now, for we shall have to tramp it to the fort as
soon as it's daylight. The devils are gone and carried
off the boat."
Not less anxious than himself to be once more on their
way to the fort, which some of them, on entering the
house that night, had scarcely hoped to reach alive, the
men, leaning their muskets against the side of the room,
assisted in preparing the rude, but grateful meal, of
which they stood so much in need, and which was to sustain
them during the short-approaching march. The table having
been placed in the centre of the room, and on it the
demijohn, and bread and venison, Green and Weston, the
latter of whom had been unsuccessful in his search for
water, seized each a leg and a wing of the ample turkey,
which now denuded and disembowelled, Cass had scientifically
carved in its raw state, and held them in the blaze of
the fire, waiting patiently until the blackness of the
outside should give promise of corresponding warmth
within.


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