Haswell and Coolidge had their belt pistols
and swords. The two mates approached the native village. The Indians
began tossing spears, as Haswell thought, to amuse their visitors.
That failing to inspire these white men, {221} rash as children, with
fear, the Indians formed a ring, clubbed down their weapons in
pantomime, and executed all the significant passes of the famous
war-dance. "It chilled my veins," says Haswell; and the two mates had
gone back to their clam digging, when there was a loud, angry shout.
Glancing just where the rowboat lay rocking abreast the hay cutters,
Haswell saw an Indian snatch at the cutlass of Lopez, the black, who
had carelessly stuck it in the sand. With a wild halloo, the thief
dashed for the woods, the black in pursuit, mad as a hornet.
Haswell went straight to the chief and offered a reward for the return
of the sword, or the black man. The old chief taciturnly signalled for
Haswell to do his own rescuing.
Theft and flight had both been part of a design to scatter the white
men. "They see we are ill armed," remarked Haswell to the other.
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