CAPTURED BY THE SHAWANEES
"GLORY! but that was a hot time!"
Sandy thrust his head out of the hollow tree as he gasped these words.
The fire had swept past as he crouched there, trying to hold his
breath, and wondering if it would reach into the aperture and seize
hold of his garments.
And now it was gone. He could hardly believe the truth, and that he had
really escaped without any injury. Down the wind he could see the angry
glow that marked the fire line. Here and there little blazes still
remained, where a winrow of the dead leaves had offered fat pickings
for the flames. And smoke curled up everywhere, sickening smoke that
made the eyes smart.
"But what of Bob?"
That was the chief thought that surged through the mind of the boy as
he crouched there inside his refuge and stared out at the strange scene.
"Oh! what if he did not find a place to hide? What if he was caught in
the open? I can stand this suspense no longer. I _must_ know the worst!"
As he said this with a quavering voice, he issued from the tree. The
earth was still hot after its recent burning; but, by picking his
way, Sandy believed that he might find it possible to walk on in the
direction the fire had swept along.
He called to Bob as he moved. Once his heart seemed to leap into his
mouth, for he thought he saw something move ahead; but, though he
turned a little aside so as to advance that way, he failed to see it
again.
Then he stopped to consider. Was it wise for him to wander off in
this manner, without a definite plan? Had not Bob told him to stay
where he was until he came? He might get lost, and only add to their
troubles. Yes, perhaps he had better restrain his impatience, and wait
a reasonable time to see whether Bob would not show himself.
It was while he stood thus, close to an unusually large tree, that
something came to pass, possibly the very last thing in all the world
Sandy was thinking about.
A pair of muscular bronzed arms suddenly closed about the boy.
Struggling hard, and twisting his head back, he found to his horror
that he was looking into the painted face of an Indian warrior.
[Illustration: "A PAIR OF MUSCULAR BRONZED ARMS SUDDENLY CLOSED ABOUT
THE BOY."]
Then he heard the brave give vent to a screech, which must have been
some sort of signal, for immediately three other feathered heads popped
into view, one of them from behind the very tree where Sandy had
believed he saw something move.
In vain the boy struggled with all his might; his strength was not
equal to that of the man who held him, and, when the four ugly looking
red men had gathered around him, the nearest snatched his musket away.
"Ugh!" grunted his captor, suddenly releasing his arms.
Sandy stood there in their midst, white and alarmed, but trying to
summon all his resolution. And, indeed, if ever the boy needed his
courage it was at that moment, when he realized that he was alone and
powerless in the hands of the hostile Shawanees.
Would they proceed to kill him then and there? He had heard terrible
stories about the cruelty of these copper-colored sons of the
wilderness.
Now they were jabbering away in an unknown tongue. Occasionally they
would point at him, as though he must be the subject of their talk, as
he had no doubt was the case.
"Oh! I wonder if they really mean to do it," was what Sandy was saying
to himself, as he listened to the vigorous language, which to him was
utterly without sense, although he felt sure that Colonel Boone could
have understood every word of it.
Then he saw one fellow, who seemed to scowl, fingering his tomahawk in
a suggestive manner that made Sandy's very blood run cold.
Thinking he saw a chance to bolt, the boy suddenly sprinted off. But
ere he had gone twenty feet his arm was clutched in a dusky hand, and
his flight brought to a halt.
At least one of his captors could speak some English, and he shook his
knife in Sandy's face:
"No run--paleface boy try more, we kill!"
Sandy managed to pluck up a little fresh hope. From what the painted
brave said, if he tried again to escape they would do something
desperate. Did that mean they would let him live if he gave in, and
allowed himself to be made a prisoner?
The man who gripped him held his hands behind, while another secured
his wrists together with buckskin thongs. That looked as though they
meant to take him along with them, perhaps to their village.
And so presently Sandy found himself marching along over the blackened
ground, hedged in by a quartette of vicious looking Indians.
They paid little attention to him, though if at any time he seemed to
slacken his pace, which was a jog-trot, such as Indians can keep up
all day, he received, as a gentle reminder that he was to put on fresh
speed, a dig in the ribs from one of those in the rear.
Sandy never forgot that little excursion. While he may not have covered
a great many miles, his spirits were so low that it seemed the most
miserable period of his whole life.
What had happened to Bob? That was the burden of his thoughts. He even
found himself wondering whether his brother could have fallen in with
these red men, and met with disaster. Then he noticed that one of the
four carried a gun, and that it was such a weapon as the French traders
used in dealing with the Indians, and not a staunch musket like the
English possessed.
If Bob had escaped both the peril of the fire and that of the Indians,
would he discover what had happened to his brother and carry the news
home?
By degrees they had edged away from the burned tract. The wind had died
out, and finally, after crossing a line of flickering flames that was
making but poor progress, Sandy discovered that they no longer walked
through blackened stuff, but upon leaves that had not felt the touch of
fire.
"Why, there must have been a shower over this way," he said to himself,
noticing that the ground seemed wet; and that was exactly what had
happened.
He heard his captors exchanging remarks again, and from their manner
guessed that the end of their pilgrimage must be close at hand.
"Perhaps it is a village they are taking me to," he said, remembering
what he had heard from Blue Jacket.
Surely that was a dog barking somewhere ahead. Did the Indians have
dogs? Yes, he remembered that this was so. Blue Jacket had told him how
they had been bred from wolves, that long ago had been taken captive,
so that they still possessed many of the savage traits that had marked
their ancestors.
And then as they pushed out of the forest he suddenly set eyes on the
Shawanee village. It stood on the bank of a small stream, no doubt a
tributary to the great Ohio. There were scores of skin lodges, each one
gaudily painted with rude scenes representing some stirring incidents
in the lives of the braves who owned them.
In spite of the distressing condition in which he found himself placed,
Sandy could not help feeling interested in the strange spectacle, for
never before had he so much as looked upon a genuine Indian wigwam.
He was not allowed to enjoy it long, however. As soon as the news that
a prisoner had been brought in was circulated among the dusky occupants
of the lodges, the utmost confusion abounded.
Braves came thronging out to meet the returning warriors, squaws
chattering, papooses squalling, and even half-naked youngsters adding
to the clamor.
Poor Sandy was pinched and poked and pushed about at the hands of the
throng until he really feared for his life. Angry looks were cast upon
him. Apparently there had been braves who had gone forth from this
village upon the warpath to return no more. They seemed to want to vent
their anger upon the head of the white boy who had fallen into their
hands.
Sandy was glad when they thrust him inside a lodge. So roughly was this
done that the boy, rendered partly helpless by his bonds, reeled and
fell on his face on the ground. Fortunately, however, the earth proved
yielding, so that he was not seriously injured.
Struggling to a sitting position, he tried to bolster up his courage
by remembering all that he had ever heard about Indian villages from
Pat O'Mara, and also from Daniel Boone himself, during that day's tramp
through the forest.
"And they said that these redskins like to burn their prisoners at the
stake," Sandy whispered to himself, as he shook his head dolefully.
"Oh! I hope they will never try that! I'm sure that was roast enough
for me in that old tree. Perhaps now that old hag means to adopt me.
She acted like it, when she threw her wrinkled arms around me, and
jabbered so. And Colonel Boone told me how he was adopted into an
Indian tribe, not long ago. She is a horrible looking old squaw; but
better be made her son than--the other thing!"
The day slowly died, and Sandy looked to the coming of night with new
terror. He could not exactly remember whether it was in the evening or
the morning that the Indians always burned their prisoners.
"It would make some difference if I only knew," he said, with hope
still fluttering in his boyish heart.
He had some difficulty in creeping to the entrance of the lodge, but
was determined to peep out again and see if there were any grim signs,
such as the planting of a stake or the gathering of brush.
"I can see nothing out of the way," he muttered, after carefully
looking as well as the circumstances allowed.
Fires had been lighted, and the squaws seemed to be getting a meal
ready, though, from what he had heard, Sandy understood that the red
men have really no set time for eating, like their paleface brothers;
simply waiting until they are hungry, and then satisfying the demands
of nature with food.
It was a scene of bustle, with many dusky figures flitting about the
fires.
"I wonder if I could manage to get away from here, in case I got my
hands free?" Sandy was saying; but almost immediately he discovered
that close by was a squatting figure, evidently a guard, for he held
a gun in his hands and seemed to be intently watching the head of the
prisoner.
So Sandy with a sigh drew back and waited for something to turn up. He
was a most disconsolate figure as he crouched there, anticipating the
worst; yet, while thinking of home and mother, trying to hope for the
best.
Then suddenly he started. Surely that was not the voice of an Indian he
heard! Again he scrambled to the opening and thrust out his head.
A neighboring fire lighted up the scene. It was of unusual size, and
the boy immediately conceived the idea that the Indians meant to
hold some sort of council, perhaps to decide his fate, for many were
gathering around, with braves in the middle, and the squaws and boys on
the outer fringe.
And standing close by, in earnest conversation with one who seemed to
be something of a chief, was a man in buckskin, a white man at that.
At first Sandy felt a quick pulsation of fierce joy. Just to see a
white man among all these dusky sons of the wilderness seemed to give
him fresh courage.
Then a spasm of chagrin passed over him, for he had remembered the
stories told by Daniel Boone of those renegades, such as Simon Girty,
who had turned their hand against their kind, and fought side by side
with the savages, more cruel even than the Indians they had taken to be
their brothers.
"But no, he must be a French trader," he said immediately, as he
listened to the voice of the man in buckskin; "like that Jacques Larue
we met when we stopped at Will's Creek on the way from Virginia. It is
the same! Yes, now I can see his face plainly. Oh! I wonder if he would
help me get away!"
Filled with this newly-awakened hope the boy prisoner lifted his voice
and called out:
"Monsieur Larue! oh! come this way, if you please!"