Wetzel, The Scout: The Captives of the Wilderness

“Who fired that gun?” demanded Captain Parks, as he turned around and faced his terrified negro, Pompey. “Hang me, if I don’t believe it was you, Pompey.”

“Heben sabe me, massa captain; I wouldn’t do such a ting for ten fousand dollars!”

“Let me see your gun.”

The trembling African obeyed. It required but a moment for the irascible captain to ascertain that the piece had just been discharged.

“Yes, you black rascal, it was you! Take that!” he added giving his servant a tremendous kick. The latter paid not the least heed to it, and finally added, as if addressing himself,

“Come to tink soberly on de matter, I bring to mind I did have de hammer up, so as to be ready for de Injins when dey do come, and jist now I stubbed my toe, and jerked on de trigger, and I s’pose dat am what made de blasted ting go off so mighty suddint like.”

“Of course it was, you black rascal! It came within an inch of my head. If anything like that happens again, I’ll leave you here in the woods for the Indian’s tomahawk.”

“Heben sabe me, I’ll be careful.”

Captain Parks, a blunt, corpulent, middle-aged man, who had served and been wounded in the Revolutionary war, was toilsomely making his way along the banks of the Ohio, near the close of day, followed by his servant, a great fat negro, of about as much use as a common ox would have been. He was endeavoring to reach a certain point, which had been described to him by the renowned ranger Lew Wetzel, for the purpose of being taken on board a flat-boat on its way down the Ohio. His own family and a number of friends were on board, and after seeing them embark, a goodly number of miles above, he had gone overland for some distance in order to meet a man on an important business matter. Remaining with him no longer than could be helped, he made all haste toward the rendezvous, which he had just reached at the time we introduce him to the reader.