THE WAR CRY OF ABRAM ANTONE, THE ONEIDA CHIEF

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The Indian still stood unmoved and watched him as he opened his eyes, and gradually became conscious of the danger which was upon him. De Forest shuddered and shrunk deeper within the bed. He rubbed his eyes and again looked, as though he doubted if he were not still dreaming, but over him stood the savage. That basilisk gaze he knew even in the night, for in the darkness that eye had more than the power of the wildcat's, and the naked knife was above him. The Indian spoke. His tone was that of a whisper, but deep and guttural and distinct upon the ear of his listener as the peals of a bell. De Forest started and his lips were opening, but a motion of the savage intimidated him, as he slowly said: “The glory of a chief is lost by the blow of a white. He must die.” De Forest by this time had collected his scattered faculties. He full well saw his danger, and concentrated every energy of mind and body, he made a sudden spring to avert it. But the savage had not delayed so long were his prey insecure. With his left hand he brought him back at his length upon the bed, and with the speed of light his right descended, and the glittering blade sunk to the haft in the heart of the victim. A shuddering shriek announced the fact, which was followed by long and repeated shouts from the deep chest of the savage which rung a far through the valley. A moment sufficed to burst the window from its frame, and before the companion of De Forest could throw any impediment in the way, the Indian leaped to the ground. There was the report of firearms from the startled sentinels, but their shots were ineffectual, and all rushed into the house in wonder and alarm to inquire into the circumstances. All surmises ranged far from the truth until a veteran soldier, who stood apart, apparently stupefied through the whole of the inquiry, recovered in a measure and addressed them. “I am the oldest among you, fellow soldiers,” said he, “but in all my campaigns—and they are not few—have I never met with anything so passing strange before. I can tell you, I believe who it is that has done this deed—the cause I know not. The cry we have just heard, so wild and more than human, you will all say, can never by any of you be forgotten. I have heard it once before, thirty and odd years ago. It is the war cry of Abram Antone, the Oneida chief.”

("Forest and Stream", 20 September 1913, page 359)