That
night in his quarters Jim quietly said:
"I'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, Marse Jeff."
"Would you, James?"
"Dat I would, sah."
Nothing more was said. But a new bond was sealed between master and man.
While at Fort Crawford, the Lieutenant had been ordered up the Yellow
River to build a saw mill. He had handled the neighboring Indians with
such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was
adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. An old Indian woman
bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the Fort to warn the "Little
Chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. Her warning was unheeded by
the new commander and a massacre followed.
The success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier
and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. The
country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. The
weather was intensely cold, and his Southern blood suffered agonies
unknown to his companions. Often wet to the skin and compelled to remain
in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. For months he
lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men.
James Pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he
were a child.
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