On that fateful morning of the battle of Tippecanoe, Ross Douglas fought
in the front ranks until the savages broke and fled. Then he joined in
the hot pursuit. Duke kept close at his master’s side, growling and
baying viciously. In the charge Bright Wing got separated from his white
comrade, and returned to camp. Ross impetuously pressed onward, keeping
his eyes upon the flying foe and glancing neither to the right nor the
left, until he found himself at the foot of the slope leading up to the
Indian village. He looked around in surprise—he and the dog were alone.
He beheld the troops—a dense, dusky mass—a half mile away.
“Cowards!” the young man muttered scornfully. “Why have they given up
the pursuit? Now’s the time to win a glorious victory and make a lasting
peace. Fools! To come hundreds of miles to indulge in a mere skirmish.
They should follow up their success, and annihilate the Prophet and
his bloodthirsty band. If they stop at this, nothing will have been
accomplished. But I may as well go back with the others. Ah! who’s that?
Bradford!”
It was indeed the scar-faced scout. At full speed he came running down
the slope, gesticulating wildly. What could it mean? Ross had just
reloaded his rifle. Now he rested his finger upon the sensitive trigger
and wonderingly awaited the deserter’s approach.
“Flee—flee for your life, Douglas!” Bradford shouted excitedly.
Duke, who had been trying to warn his preoccupied master of approaching
danger, by a series of—low hoarse growls, now began to bark furiously.
Ross hastily glanced around him. He was almost surrounded by a party
of Indians. They had been in hiding behind a clump of bushes near the
foot of the incline, awaiting the chance to cut off the retreat of some
venturesome white. The gray fog rising from the marshy prairie had helped
to conceal them. While the unsuspecting Douglas had stood gazing at the
walls of the town, his cunning enemies had risen from their hiding-place,
and like silent specters glided out upon the soft prairie and thrown
themselves in a semicircle around him. Now they yelled exultingly and
began to close in.
Ross did not wait to see or hear more. Instantly he resolved to make a
dash for liberty. “Come, Duke!” he cried; and with the fleetness of a
deer sprang away, attempting to break through the line of his foes.
Bradford was at the bottom of the slope. “Hold!” he shouted frantically.
“It’s too late—you’ll throw away your life!”
But Douglas did not heed the warning. He eluded the grasp of one of the
Indians who barred his way; discharged his rifle full in the face of
another; struck down a third—and leaping over his prostrate body, sped
on. A half-score of guns cracked simultaneously. But the bullets failed
to reach the moving mark; and master and dog were beyond the line of
their enemies. They would have distanced their pursuers and escaped, had
not an unforeseen accident occurred. Ross’s foot became entangled in a
bunch of coarse, wet grass, and he tripped and fell heavily. Ere he could
rise his enemies were upon him.
Duke sprang at the throat of the foremost assailant, and dog and brave
fell to the ground. Over and over they rolled—the hound striving to bury
his fangs in the Indian’s throat, the savage attempting to sheath his
knife in the animal’s heart.
Douglas got upon his feet, clubbed his rifle, and laid about him
vigorously. But his foes overpowered him and pressed him to the earth.
Seeing which, Duke relinquished his hold upon the throat of his prostrate
adversary and flew to the aid of his master. The dying warrior gasped,
and attempted to arise—blood spurting in crimson jets from his lacerated
arteries.
At the critical moment, Bradford rushed among the braves, and flinging
them right and left, thundered in the Indian tongue:
“Hold, you mad devils! Would you overpower and murder a man who has
fought bravely for his life? Harm not a hair of his head, or your lives
shall pay the penalty. He is _my_ prisoner.”
Bending down, he assisted Douglas to arise. As soon as he could speak,
the young man called to the bloodhound:
“Here, Duke! Down—down, I say!”
The obedient animal left the savage with whom he was struggling,
and crouched at his master’s feet—panting, whining, and rolling his
blood-rimmed eyes. The Indians drew apart a short distance, grunting and
grumbling in a surly and threatening manner. For a full minute the two
white men stood looking at each other. Douglas’s chest was still heaving
from his recent exertions; and his words came brokenly:
“You saved my life. I thank you for it! But I’d rather you had left me to
my fate.”
“Why?” Bradford asked coolly.
“Because I don’t like to be under obligations to a traitor,” Ross replied
boldly.
The younger man expected to see the older’s face pale with anger. But
a smile actually rested upon Bradford’s scarred visage, as he returned
calmly:
“You’re mistaken, my young friend. I’m no traitor. _You_ are loyal to the
Americans—_I_ am loyal to the English.”
“Then you are a spy in the employ of the British.”
“Y-e-s. Or an agent to look after their interests among the Indians,
rather.”
“I despise you none the less,” Ross cried.
Bradford continued to smile as he said:
“You are young—therefore you are indiscreet. I have saved your life; I
would be your friend. But if you don’t desire my friendship, I can turn
you over to the tender mercies of those red fiends, who are hungering
to tear you limb from limb. Even now they are grumbling about my
interference. I may lose my life for my temerity. You’re ungrateful.”
“If you regret your act of mercy and fear for your own safety,” Douglas
sneered, “call your savage hounds and tell them to do their worst. I can
die fighting.”
“I don’t regret what I have done,” Bradford returned huskily, a shade
of sadness in his voice, “nor do I fear for my own safety. I don’t
value life—I don’t fear death. And I’ll save you or perish with you.
But you must listen to reason; you must do my bidding. Just at present
I have great influence with the Indians. I’ll exert it to the utmost
in your behalf. But you and your vicious dog have sorely punished your
assailants. Two warriors are dead and several others are wounded. Their
comrades thirst for revenge. Hist! Here they come. Say not a word—leave
it all to me.”
A stalwart Indian came forward and grunted surlily:
“The paleface’s arm is strong—his aim is sure; the fangs of his dog are
long and sharp. Two braves are sleeping with their fathers; and three
others are binding up their wounds. The paleface and his dog must die.”
“No, he shall _not_ die, chief,” Bradford cried angrily. “He fought for
life and liberty. You assailed him twenty to one. I rescued him—he is my
prisoner. I shall take him to the village with me.”
“He is _not_ Scar Face’s prisoner,” the chief returned fiercely, laying
his hand upon his tomahawk—while his warriors crowded around him,
muttering threateningly.
“Tenskwatawa shall decide,” Bradford answered coolly.
“Tenskwatawa is a squaw! He promised us victory; we met defeat.”
“Say that to Tenskwatawa, and he will cast a spell upon you.”
A grayish pallor overspread the chief’s dusky visage. His eyes dilated
and his jaw dropped. Bradford quickly followed up the advantage he had
gained. Leaning forward, he whispered in the Indian’s ear:
“Shall I repeat your words to the Prophet?”
Abject terror took possession of the chief. He trembled, and gasped for
breath. His warriors uttered startled grunts and drew away. Bradford
continued sternly:
“Then, take your braves and be off to the village. I will follow with the
prisoner.”
Without a word in reply, the savages obeyed the order. Bradford waited
until they had disappeared within the walls. Then turning to Douglas, he
said:
“Come—you must accompany me.”
“We’re alone,” Ross answered quietly; “you can’t compel me to go with
you.”
“_My_ gun is loaded—_your’s_ is empty,” was the significant reply.
“True—but you wouldn’t shoot me.”
Bradford started.
“What makes you think that?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know. But you wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t injure you—even if you left me to my fate.”
“Your fate? I don’t understand you.”
“If you leave me to return to the village alone, I shall meet death at
the hands of the savages. They’ll kill me for breaking faith with them.”
“Then go with me to the camp of the whites——”
“And be shot as a _spy_!” Bradford completed.
“True!” Douglas said slowly and impressively. “Bradford, you _are_ a
British spy—an enemy of my country. I hate you—I despise you!”—The older
man turned pale to the lips, but did not interrupt his companion.—“But
you have befriended me; and I’ll not be guilty of the sin of ingratitude.
You shan’t sacrifice your life for my liberty. Take my arms. I’m your
prisoner.”
“Keep your arms,” Bradford returned hoarsely, his chest heaving, his
white lips twitching. “Reload your gun. We may have to fight shoulder to
shoulder. Let’s be prepared to sell our lives dearly.”
Silently Ross reloaded and primed his rifle. Then he said simply:
“I’m ready.”
“Come,” was the gruff response.
Side by side, the two men ascended the slope and entered the unguarded
gateway of the palisade. Duke accompanied them. An extraordinary
spectacle met their gaze. Hundreds of armed warriors—Shawnees,
Winnebagoes, Miamis, Wyandots, and others—were swarming promiscuously
about. Squaws and children bearing bags and bundles hurried hither and
thither. All was bustle and confusion. The whole resembled a hive of
angry bees into which some venturesome youngster had thrust a stick.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” Ross inquired of his companion.
“They are preparing to abandon the town,” was the reply.
“Shall we go with them?”
“If we’re alive at the time—yes.”
They elbowed their way through the throng, attracting no little attention.
“Scar Face,” muttered a Winnebago, as they passed.
“Fleet Foot,” grunted a Wyandot.
“Does he mean you?” asked Bradford turning to his companion.
“Yes.”
“You merit the name. Does the Wyandot warrior know you?”
“Undoubtedly. I’ve traded among the members of the tribe, for years.”
“Do you speak their language?”
“I speak several Indian tongues.”
“So much the better. Our mutual knowledge may be of value to us.”
They were conversing in low tones, all the while proceeding in the
direction of the council-lodge.
“And they call you Scar Face,” Douglas carelessly remarked.
“Yes,” answered his companion, in a tone of intense bitterness—the red
scar upon his cheek blazing like a beacon light of danger.
Ross instantly realized his mistake, and hastened to say:
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn’t do that needlessly,
though I look upon you as an enemy.”
“I fully understand your feeling toward me,” Bradford replied, his
features working. “It’s unnecessary for you to explain.”
Douglas was surprised. Who was this strange man, to whom he owed his life
and for whom he felt such antipathy—and who appeared determined to be his
friend? To relieve his embarrassment, the younger man asked:
“Have you spent much of your life among the Indians?”
“Half of it,” was the curt reply.
By this time they were nearing the entrance of the council lodge; and
Bradford continued:
“There—we have safely run the gauntlet of scowling looks and threatening
gestures. I feared we should not get through so easily. Now we’ll have an
interview with Tenskwatawa. Oh! there he is.”
In front of the council lodge stood the Prophet. He was alone. His head
was bowed; his chin, buried in the folds of his buffalo-robe. He was a
bronze statue of gloom—the personification of utter dejection.
“Come,” whispered Bradford to Douglas. “Let’s hurry to him while he’s
alone. Our safety depends upon our winning him to our side.”
Ross hesitated and drew back.
“Don’t be a fool!” Bradford hissed. “This is no time for squeamish
notions of independence.”
“But I hate him!” Douglas panted. “I would _kill_ him!”
“Nevertheless,” was the unmoved reply, “he holds the winning cards, at
present. Our lives are in his hands. No doubt the chief and his warriors
have been to him. Come—and leave everything to me.”
At that moment Tenskwatawa lifted his head and fixed his one eye upon
them. A malicious smile flickered about the corners of his sensual
mouth—and was gone. Again he was a graven image.
Bradford was about to speak, when a gigantic Indian accompanied by a
score of warriors unceremoniously elbowed him aside and stopped before
the Prophet. The newcomer was Winnemac, the great Pottawatomie chief.
His hands were clenched; his features, black with rage. The Prophet kept
his gaze fixed upon the ground and gave no heed to the angry chief’s
presence.
“Tenskwatawa is a Shawnee squaw!” Winnemac thundered.
“He promised us success; we received defeat. He said the palefaces were
crazy; but they were in their senses, and fought like devils. He told us
that we should rejoice over the destruction of the White Chief’s army;
we mourn for our young men slain. He assured us that we should not taste
death; we feasted upon it. Tecumseh is a brave warrior; Tenskwatawa is a
squaw! See, braves! I spit upon him and slap his face!”
And suiting the action to the words, the enraged chief spat upon the
Prophet and dealt him a resounding slap upon the cheek.
The assembled warriors yelled in derision. Scores of others, attracted
by the uproar, came running to the spot. Bradford and Douglas found
themselves in the center of a mob of hooting, gesticulating demons, ready
to wreak their rage upon any object that offered. The two white men
looked anxiously about them, but saw no way of escape.
Tenskwatawa did not resent Winnemac’s insult. Instead, he lifted his hand
to command silence; and, as soon as he could make himself heard, began
meekly:
“Tenskwatawa is no warrior—he is the Prophet of the Great Spirit.
Tenskwatawa is no squaw, though he has borne the burdens of his people
for many moons. The Great Spirit promised Tenskwatawa the victory, and he
gave the message to his children. The Great Spirit did not lie——”
“Tenskwatawa lied!” Winnemac shouted fiercely.
Unheeding the interruption, the Prophet continued:
“The Great Spirit made no mistake; but Tenskwatawa blundered. He parted
with his sign—his power. He gave it to the noble Winnemac, that he might
lead his warriors to victory. Tenskwatawa robbed himself of his power—he
was helpless. The noble Winnemac could make no use of the sign—he knew
not the secret of its power. The battle was lost. Tenskwatawa blundered.”
Grunts of approval followed this apparently frank confession. Seeing
which, Winnemac cried sneeringly:
“Tenskwatawa lost his power—and it is gone forever. He is a babbling
papoose!”
“Return to him his sign, and he will show the noble Winnemac that he is
mistaken,” the Prophet returned quietly.
“Take it!” sneered Winnemac, drawing the ring from his finger and
contemptuously flinging it at the feet of its owner.
Tenskwatawa secured the talisman and restored it to its accustomed
place upon his right hand. Instantly a remarkable change took place in
his aspect and demeanor. No longer was he a humble suppliant begging
pardon for past mistakes. He proudly drew himself erect, his lips curling
scornfully. The pupil of his eye contracted. The ring upon his finger
scintillated in the rays of the morning sun. With a sinuous, snake-like
movement, he glided to Winnemac’s side; and suddenly pushing the
sparkling jewel before the startled chief’s eyes, hissed:
“The sign—the power! Look—look! you cannot take your eyes from it!”
Winnemac’s features froze—became rigid, expressionless. His eyeballs
bulged from their sockets and remained fixed. The Prophet slowly waved
his hand to and fro. The Pottawatomie’s head turned from side to side—his
gaze followed the movements of the talisman. Faster and faster the
Prophet’s hand flew. Then, of a sudden, he leaned forward and whispered
in the chief’s ear:
“You are drowsy. Sleep—sleep! Your limbs are heavy—feeble. Sleep—sleep!”
Winnemac’s eyelids dropped; his frozen features thawed. He trembled,
swayed—and sank upon the ground, a senseless clod. Tenskwatawa pointed
his finger at the sleeping warrior and shouted triumphantly:
“Look, children! Look upon the valiant Winnemac. He doubted my power, he
spat upon me and defied me. See! he lies helpless at my feet. The Great
Spirit willed it—and he sleeps. Awaken him, if you can. You cannot. The
loudest thunder would not rouse him; the keenest torture would not cause
him to stir. Thus will he sleep forever, unless the Great Spirit, through
me, wills that he awake.”
The assembled braves pressed forward and craned their necks, to gaze
upon their vanquished chieftain. One look was sufficient. To their
untutored minds, a miracle had been wrought. They surged backward—silent,
awe-struck.
“Listen!” screamed the Prophet, his countenance purple with rage and
excitement. “My children, you have scoffed at my power. Shall I do with
you as I have done with the great Winnemac? Shall I cast a spell upon
you—shall I cause you to sleep forever?”
Again he lifted his hand and flashed the glittering gem before their
eyes, his head swaying from side to side in a serpentine manner. Shrieks
and groans of terror arose from the assembled warriors. Some prostrated
themselves to the earth and pled for mercy; others fled from the
scene—craven fear depicted upon their faces.
“What’s the meaning of it all?” Douglas inquired in a low tone, of his
companion. “Is it a clever play—for our benefit?
“No,” answered Bradford with a positive shake of the head. “Tenskwatawa
possesses some wonderful power. I don’t know what it is—but I’ve felt it.”
“And couldn’t you resist it?”
“_I_ could—yes. But _many_ can’t—as you have witnessed. Hush—he is
speaking.”
The Prophet was saying:
“Arise, my children. The Great Spirit forgives you—_I_ pardon you. Have
no fear; no harm shall befall you. Go and prepare for your journey. We
must leave this sacred spot; the white man’s presence has defiled it. But
the Great Spirit will go with us. He has promised. At another time, He
will give us the victory over our enemies. The noble Winnemac shall sleep
no longer. See!”
Tenskwatawa, clapping his hands thrice in quick succession, cried sharply:
“Winnemac, awake—arise!”
The Pottawatomie suddenly opened his eyes; and, springing to his feet,
gazed wildly around him, a bewildered expression upon his face. Little by
little he recovered his scattered faculties and remembered where he was
and what had happened. A horrified look settled on his countenance, as
his eyes rested upon the Prophet. He shivered like one with an ague; and
his teeth chattered.
“The bold and warlike Winnemac has been asleep in the early morning,”
Tenskwatawa remarked sneeringly.
“Ugh!” was the guttural reply.
Drawing his blanket over his head to hide his face, the Pottawatomie
turned and staggered from the spot. The assembled warriors quickly
followed him, leaving the two white men alone with the Prophet.
“Again I have witnessed the power of Tenskwatawa,” Bradford said, smiling
and extending his hand toward the red hypnotist. “Surely he speaks with
the Great Spirit.”
Evidently the Prophet understood the flatterer’s purpose; for, ignoring
the extended hand, he answered sternly:
“Yes; Tenskwatawa speaks with the Great Spirit. And the Great Spirit
informs him that the young man at Scar Face’s side must die.”
Bradford was not disconcerted. He returned coolly:
“Is Tenskwatawa sure he heard the Great Spirit’s words aright?”
“Tenskwatawa heard aright,” was the haughty reply. “The young paleface is
of the Seventeen Fires. He is an enemy of the redmen. To-day he fought
against them, slaying two and wounding three. The Great Spirit says he
shall suffer death by torture.”
“Did the Great Spirit inform Tenskwatawa that this young man—Fleet
Foot—is my friend?”
“No. But is not Scar Face the friend of the redmen?”
“He is.”
“Then how can an enemy of the redmen be the friend of Scar Face?”
“Fleet Foot fought only to save his life. He was attacked by twenty
braves. I ran to his rescue. I saved his life and brought him here. He is
my prisoner. Let Tenskwatawa enter the council lodge and again talk with
the Great Spirit.”
“Tenskwatawa has no need to talk further with the Great Spirit nor with
Scar Face,” the Prophet muttered in a decided tone. “The young paleface
is of the Seventeen Fires; he fought with the great White Chief—he must
die.”
“If Fleet Foot meets death at the hands of the redmen, I meet death with
him,” Bradford said firmly.
An evil smile flickered around the corners of Tenskwatawa’s wide mouth,
as he replied menacingly:
“If Scar Face be so anxious to meet death, he has not far to go. I will
call my children and give him and Fleet Foot as toys, into their hands.”
The Prophet opened his lips, to carry his threat into execution. As
though understanding the import of what had been said, Duke raised
his bristles and growled hoarsely. Startled by the sound, the Prophet
recoiled a step. Taking advantage of his unguarded attitude, Bradford
dropped his gun, and leaping forward, caught the Shawnee around the body
and carried him into the council lodge. Douglas and Duke quickly followed.
Setting the red hypnotist in the center of the bare floor, Bradford
panted fiercely:
“You infernal impostor and scoundrel! Your uncanny power has no influence
over me. I am no superstitious Winnemac. You would give Fleet Foot and me
into the hands of your red fiends, eh? Well, you shall die first!”
Bradford spoke in the Shawnee tongue; and the Prophet understood every
word. The boastful braggart cowered and trembled. Cowardice was written
in every lineament of his features. A sickly pallor overspread his face.
He could not articulate a sound. He fearfully rolled his eyes from side
to side. But no chance of escape offered—no attendants were at hand.
Turning to his companion, Bradford asked hurriedly:
“You brought my gun in with you?”
Ross nodded.
“Well, see that both pieces are in order. I’ll kill this miscreant—then
we’ll make a running fight for it. It’s all that is left us.”
Tenskwatawa was shaking like one with senile palsy. Bradford drew his
knife and swiftly advanced upon him. The base wretch dropped upon his
knees and supplicatingly raised his hands. He tried to speak; but naught
save the chatter of his teeth broke the stillness of the big, dark room.
“Die, treacherous devil!” Bradford hissed as he raised his arm to strike.
“Mercy!” Tenskwatawa managed to gasp.
“Mercy!” sneered Scar Face, still holding the knife aloft. “Dare you beg
for mercy? What mercy have _you_ ever shown? You condemn my friend and me
to death—yet ask me to show mercy to _you_!”
“Mercy!” the craven lips whispered. “Scar Face and his friend shall go
free; my children shall not harm them.”
A husky laugh gurgled in Bradford’s throat, as he answered:
“You are a fool—you think to deceive me. As soon as we are out of your
presence, you will call your red hounds and set them upon us. No! I
cannot trust you—your hour has come. Prepare to meet the Great Spirit
whose name you have defamed. You are a treacherous cur—and you shall die!”
“Have I ever deceived you, Scar Face?” the Prophet asked tremulously,
in his terror dropping the figurative form of speech to which he was
addicted, and speaking in the first person.
“N-o,” Bradford admitted.
“Nor am I deceiving you now,” the kneeling savage hastened to say. “You
and your friend shall go free—none shall molest you. You shall come and
go at your pleasure. I was mad to threaten you——”
“Indeed, you were!” Bradford interrupted, dropping his arm, but still
retaining a firm hold upon his knife. “Now, Tenskwatawa, if you have
come to your senses, arise and give heed to what I say. This is the
second time you have pitted yourself against me—and both times you have
been worsted. The next time I shall not bandy words with you. Do you
understand my meaning?”
The Prophet, who had arisen to his feet, nodded meekly.
“Very well,” Scar Face continued, “you are desirous of wresting your
lands from the grasping Americans. The British are your allies. They
have furnished your children with arms, ammunition, and clothing. I am
their agent. Do you wish me to return to my people and tell them you
sought to take my life?”
Tenskwatawa sullenly but emphatically shook his head.
Bradford proceeded: “Had you caused my death, my people would have
learned the fact. They would have withdrawn their help, and avenged my
murder. You know I speak the truth. You were mad to harbor the thought
of opposing my will. Your brother—the great and warlike Tecumseh—is my
friend. What would he have said to you?”
The Prophet shivered and was silent. Bradford hastened to conclude:
“Let us have a final understanding, then. This young man is my friend——”
“Hold!” testily interrupted Douglas, who had been chafing under the
oft-repeated assertion. “I’ll not admit that I’m your friend, to save my
life, even.”
Tenskwatawa uttered a grunt of surprise. But Scar Face resumed placidly:
“He _is_ my friend, although he denies it. But he is an American; and as
an American, is the enemy of the redmen and their allies, the English.
This morning he fought against us; he would fight against us again.
Therefore we shall keep him prisoner. But he must receive neither insult
nor injury at our hands. Tenskwatawa, you have made two mistakes within
the last twenty-four hours. You must not forget your promise to me—and
thereby make another.”
“Tenskwatawa will not forget his promise,” the Prophet answered humbly.
Bradford approached the Indian and whispered a few words in his ear. The
latter nodded and glanced toward Douglas. Then the two white men and the
dog withdrew from the lodge. When they were out of sight and hearing, the
Prophet stamped the earth and tore his hair, in a frenzy of impotent rage.
On reaching the open air, Bradford turned to his companion and said
briskly:
“Wait for me here. I’ll be gone but a few minutes.”
And without tarrying for an answer, he disappeared around the corner of
the building. On his return he remarked:
“Well, we have escaped from our difficulty. It was a bold plan that I
followed—but the only one; and it succeeded admirably. But Tenskwatawa is
a weak and treacherous villain, and will bear close watching. His success
in overpowering Winnemac made him reckless—mad.”
“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” Ross asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are safe; and I’ll return to the army.”
“But you can’t,” Bradford answered smilingly.
“Why?”
“Because you are my prisoner.”
Douglas’s anger arose; and he answered hotly:
“Your prisoner! Hiram Bradford, you saved my life. Then I accompanied you
here, that the vengeance of the savages might not fall upon you—that you
might not suffer for my escape. You have cowed the Prophet—you are safe.
I’m going back to my friends.”
“Again I say—you _cannot_.”
“And again _I_ say—why?”
“Because you are my prisoner and must accompany me whither I’m going.
I have just given the order that you be closely watched. Escape is
impossible. Give me your promise that you’ll not attempt it.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” Douglas cried angrily. “Do you imagine for
a moment I’ll submit to your high-handed proceeding? Do you think I’ll
remain a captive when the way of escape lies open?”
“There _is_ no way of escape, my boy,” was the cool reply. “You’ll
gracefully submit to the inevitable.”
“Why have you done this thing?” demanded Douglas, almost choking with
fury.
“I?” returned Bradford with lifted brows. “I have done nothing but save
your life and look after your safety. Your temerity led you into the
lion’s jaws. They snapped shut—and you are a prisoner. And a prisoner
you must remain for the present. If I permit you to return to your
people, I endanger myself. Besides, you heard me promise Tenskwatawa that
I would hold you captive, to keep you from fighting against the British
and Indians, in the war that is surely coming. Then, I have other reasons
for desiring to keep you with me—reasons I don’t care to divulge at
present. Come, be reasonable! We shall be the best of friends yet. I—I
have learned to like you, although you persist in saying that you hate
me——”
“Hate you!” Ross broke forth. “Hiram Bradford, I despise you—I _loathe_
you! You shall pay for this. Here, you are surrounded by hundreds of
murderous savages ready to do your bidding—and I’m helpless. But I have
friends who will follow and rescue me. Some day I shall meet you alone.
Then I’ll plunge my knife into your black heart—and rid the world of a
villain!”
“No—no! You don’t mean what you say—you cannot!” gasped Bradford, his
disfigured face as pale as death and his lips quivering.
But Ross made no reply. Tossed by a tempest of rage, he whirled and
strode away to a distant part of the inclosure. Bradford silently watched
the young man until he disappeared among the groups of savages. Then the
older man sunk his chin upon his breast and groaned bitterly:
“He hates me—despises me! God! How great is my punishment! I love him; I
would gladly shed my last drop of blood for him. And he loathes me—would
murder me!”
A few minutes later, he was his cool, collected self; and was moving from
place to place, searching for Douglas.
[Illustration]