Several days passed. Ross Douglas’s arms were not restored to him. He was
permitted to wander about the camp at will; but he noted that whenever
he approached the confines of the place, two or more armed and watchful
warriors were always near him. Each night he was closely guarded; each
day he was constantly watched. He evolved one plan of escape after
another—only to cast them aside as impracticable. He fumed and fretted—it
did no good, however. He was still a prisoner—and doomed to remain such,
so far as he could foresee.
Bradford remained cool, suave—but inflexible as steel. He procured for
his prisoner the best the camp afforded; he granted him many privileges.
But all the while he maintained a rigid surveillance over his every
movement. Ross could not understand the man or his motives; nor could he
analyze his own feelings toward him. One moment the younger man enjoyed
the older’s company, and chatted pleasantly with him; the next he hated
the sight of the scarred face, and was ready to leap upon its possessor
and tear him limb from limb.
La Violette kept to herself. When she left her cabin she did not mingle
with the savages. An aged squaw was her attendant. More than once Ross
saw her straying up and down the bank of the stream. But she took no
notice of his presence; and he did not approach her. Yet at night he met
her in the land of dreams, and held converse with her.
Soon the small quantity of food the Indians had brought with them from
the Prophet’s Town was exhausted. Absolute want prevailed. Hunting
parties went out in all directions, but returned scantily laden with
game. The Miamis left for more favorable hunting-grounds; the Winnebagoes
departed for their northern homes. But the Shawnees, Pottawatomies,
Delawares, and others remained. The gaunt wolf of famine was staring
them in the face. Bradford’s prediction came true. The savages began to
kill and eat their dogs and horses. But Duke and his master still had
cornbread and venison three times a day.
One morning Douglas, accompanied by the bloodhound, was walking about
the camp. In front of Tenskwatawa’s cabin he was met by a concourse of
braves, in the midst of which stalked a tall and commanding figure.
“Tecumseh!” was the cry that rose on all sides.
It was the redoubtable chieftain. Unheralded he had returned from his
southern tour, to find his people defeated, discouraged, and in want.
The work of years had been undone in an hour. Cohesion was lost, and
the tribes were scattering. To the great warrior’s mind, his brother’s
egotism and precipitancy were to blame for it all. He had just arrived.
His handsome features were set and stern; his black eyes, ablaze with
anger.
Unheeding the joyful shouts that greeted him, he strode up to the
Prophet’s hut and unceremoniously kicked open the rickety door.
“Tenskwatawa, come forth!” he thundered.
A guttural exclamation, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps,
came from within. Then the Prophet, bowing and smiling, stood in the
doorway.
“Welcome, my brother!” were his words of greeting.
Dashing aside the extended hand, Tecumseh cried angrily:
“How dare you bid me welcome to this poor place—you who have disobeyed my
orders and defeated my purpose!”
Tenskwatawa scornfully curled his lip, as he replied:
“My brother, after a long absence, returns to his people. I bid him
welcome and extend to him my hand. He rejects it—and, in answer to my
greeting drops angry words. I fail to understand his meaning.”
Tecumseh drew his magnificent figure to its full height and keenly eyed
the speaker. His deep chest heaved spasmodically. The assembled warriors
maintained a breathless silence. Instinctively they knew that a struggle
for the mastery was on between the two Titans of the Shawnee tribe.
“You know well what I mean!” Tecumseh at last managed to articulate.
“For years I have labored to bring about a union of the tribes. I have
traveled far—I have sat by many council-fires. You offered me your
advice and aid. I accepted both. I loved and trusted you. Together we
accomplished much. A few months ago I went to visit our brothers of the
land of flowers and sunshine. They have promised to join us in a war to
recover our own. When I started on my journey, I cautioned you to do
nothing that would excite the suspicions or arouse the animosities of
the Seventeen Fires. You promised to follow my advice—to obey my orders.
But scarcely were my footprints cold, ere you allowed our young men to
go forth to pillage and murder. You had certain knowledge of this—yet
you winked at it. The inevitable happened. I return to find my people
defeated—humiliated. You, Tenskwatawa—you alone are to blame for all!
Wag your deceitful tongue, and let our people know what excuse you can
fashion!”
The Prophet’s repulsive countenance was contorted with rage, as he burst
forth:
“I have nothing to say to my children. I have explained all to them; and
they are satisfied. But to you, Tecumseh, my brother, I have this to say:
I have aided you; I have furthered your plans. You went away and left me
to hold in check our restless young men. They refused to listen to my
words. I could not control them. The palefaces sent an army against us.
I talked with the Great Spirit. He promised me the victory. My children
went into the battle. They fought valiantly; but they were overcome.
Smarting with defeat, they heaped reproaches upon me. They buffeted me
and spit upon me. I bore it all. I showed them my power—I acknowledged my
mistake. And all was well. Now you come to abuse me. I have borne much—I
will bear no more!”
Scarcely had the Prophet concluded, when Tecumseh, beside himself with
boiling fury, shouted:
“Yes, you _will_ bear more—you will bear _this_ at my hands!”
Springing forward, he caught his brother by the throat and choked
him until his brutal face was purple. The savages looked on in utter
amazement; but no one offered to interfere. Tenskwatawa’s tongue
protruded. He gurgled and gasped for breath. Douglas turned his back upon
the sickening spectacle. As he did so, his eyes met those of Bradford. In
answer to the younger man’s mute appeal, the older sadly shook his head.
Ross understood. Not a soul in the assemblage dared to brave Tecumseh’s
mad rage.
Nevertheless, there was one in the camp who did not stand in awe of the
great chief. That person was La Violette. From her cabin door she had
noted Tecumseh’s arrival, had observed the meeting of the two brothers,
and had witnessed their wordy encounter and its result. Now she appeared
upon the scene. The warriors saw her coming and respectfully stepped
aside to let her pass. With the speed and grace of a fawn, she ran toward
the spot where the Prophet was struggling in the iron grasp of his
enraged brother. Her light feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground;
her unconfined tresses streamed behind her; her violet eyes sparkled with
excitement.
A small white hand was laid upon Tecumseh’s arm, and an imperious young
voice commanded:
“Hold, noble chief! Would you kill Tenskwatawa—the prophet of his
people—my father!”
Like one suddenly recalled from a delirium, Tecumseh loosened his hold
upon his brother’s throat and staggered back a step. Slowly he lifted his
eyes. They met those of La Violette—and he stood abashed before her.
The Prophet, released from the other’s cruel grasp, sank upon the ground,
shivering and moaning. The purplish hue forsook his face; a deathly
pallor succeeded it. He attempted to arise, but his limbs refused to do
his bidding. His lips trembled. He was overcome with fear.
La Violette looked upon the cowering wretch, and her face flushed
scarlet. Her violet eyes snapped angrily. Shame—not pity—was in her
voice, as she cried:
“Arise, father! You are not badly hurt. Here—let me help you.”
Stooping, she assisted the craven to his feet. He stared helplessly
around him—and could hardly stand. With the whispered words,—“Go and
hide your weakness!”—La Violette pushed him into the cabin. Then boldly
walking up to Tecumseh and taking him by the arm, she said in a low tone:
“Is it thus that wise men settle their differences? For shame! Follow
Tenskwatawa—and come not forth until you have a message of good cheer for
your disheartened people.”
Tecumseh haughtily straightened his lithe form and folded his arms upon
his chest, as though about to resent her cutting words. But again their
eyes met—and, bowing deferentially, he stalked into the hut, closing the
door after him.
La Violette—like Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa—had spoken in the Shawnee
tongue; but Bradford and Douglas, standing near, had heard and understood
every word. Now she stepped in front of the two white men and, addressing
the older, demanded in English:
“Scar Face, why did you not interfere in Tenskwatawa’s behalf?”
“I didn’t dare,” Bradford replied truthfully.
“Dare!”—tossing her head contemptuously—“Are you not a man?”
“Yes; but——”
“But a coward?”
Bradford’s face colored a dull red as he answered:
“La Violette, you know I’m no coward—whatever else I may be. But it would
have been worse than useless for me to interfere. I should have incurred
Tecumseh’s lasting displeasure—and accomplished nothing.”
“Did _I_ not accomplish something?” she cried disdainfully. “And are you
not stronger than I?”
“Stronger, yes,” Bradford replied calmly. “In your weakness lies your
strength. Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa grant you privileges they would accord
to no other. You can safely do and say things for which another would be
sentenced to death!”
“Bah! You lack courage—you fear death!” she retorted scornfully. “You
are afraid of the great Shawnee chief and his brother, the Prophet. Yet
you are the agent of the English—sent among the tribes to counsel and
guide them. Do you think Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa have strengthened
their influence over their people, by quarreling before them—by making a
spectacle of themselves?”
Bradford silently shook his head. Douglas looked with wonder and awe
upon the frail, beauteous being before him. Her face was alight with
animation; her form quivering with restrained feeling. Ross had seen the
influence she exerted over the two crafty Shawnees. A sudden realization
of wherein lay the real strength of the Indian confederacy flashed upon
his mind; and he started and changed color.
La Violette proceeded:
“Hiram Bradford, you are the agent of the British. You are here to look
after their interests. Are you fulfilling your mission when you allow
the two great organizers of the confederacy madly to tear down all they
have built? Look! Look at the braves of the different tribes talking
among themselves. Do you not know what it means? Winnemac is jealous of
Tenskwatawa; Stone Eater covets Tecumseh’s power and place; White Loon
is ripe for revolt. The warriors are defeated, dispirited. They stand
ready to join in open rebellion and follow a new leader—a new prophet.
The edifice that Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa have built is tottering to its
fall. The open quarrel between the two has further weakened its crumbling
foundation. When Tecumseh arrived—but a few minutes ago—the braves
greeted him with shouts of joy. Now all are sullen and silent. Listen!
Some are whispering that Tecumseh is in the right; others are saying that
Tenskwatawa cannot be in the wrong. But by far the greater number are
declaring for a new leader—and a new prophet. Are you blind and deaf,
Scar Face? Have not the English made common cause with the Indians?
Tecumseh’s overthrow—Tenskwatawa’s downfall—mean ruin to the plans and
projects of your people. Rouse yourself! There is work for you to do. All
may yet be well; but the breach between Tecumseh and the Prophet must be
closed. Will you come with me and help to do it?”
“Yes,” Bradford answered meekly, an expression of great perplexity upon
his scarred visage. “But what can I do?”
“Come. I will show you.”
Taking him by the hand, she led him into the Prophet’s hut.
Like one in a trance, Douglas stood staring at the closed door. He was
dazed—thunderstruck.
“Am I mad or dreaming?” he muttered to himself. “Who is she—_what_ is
she? So young—so beautiful! I thought her a helpless captive; I find
her the power behind the throne. All is mystery—chaos. Bradford’s an
impenetrable sphinx, but she—she’s an inexplicable riddle. She’s no
ignorant savage; she’s an intelligent, educated white woman. What then?
She’s not Tenskwatawa’s daughter—that’s plain. But who _is_ she? What
does she among the Indians? Bradford, even, bends to her will. She
regards the savages as her people; she’s hand and glove with the English.
Evidently she hates all Americans. And she didn’t deign to notice
me”—with a sigh—“who saved her life. So graceful—so charming; but mystery
of mysteries! She has forgotten her promise to me—ah!”
He cut short his whispered soliloquy and quickly glanced around him. In
little groups and knots, the braves were talking and gesticulating. Down
by the creek, half-naked children were paddling in the icy water and
shouting and laughing. Three squaws, bearing bundles of fagots with which
to replenish the camp-fires, passed the spot where the young man was
standing. One of the trio—a bent and wrinkled hag—revealed her toothless
gums, in a sardonic grin, and, pointing to Duke, cackled hoarsely, in the
Delaware language:
“See! See the dog. He is big and fat. The sight of him makes my mouth
water. What a stew he would make! Why has he not been killed?”
“Come on,” chuckled one of her younger companions. “The dog belongs to
Fleet Foot. Do you not see him standing there? I know him—he used to buy
furs of my father. But he is Scar Face’s prisoner now. Come on! To-night
the dog will disappear from his master’s side; and to-morrow we shall
pick his bones. My husband told me. To-morrow we shall feast.”
“And the paleface—Fleet Foot—should die, too,” grumbled the third squaw.
“He has a great appetite—he eats much. And there is no food to spare——”
Then the three passed out of Ross’s hearing. He smiled grimly as he
whispered to himself:
“So they would kill Duke to _eat_—and kill me to keep me from _eating_.
And that comely Delaware squaw remembers me. I wonder how many others in
the camp know me—and how many would befriend me, if I should appeal to
them. And I used to live among such beings; they were my associates, my
friends. Bright Wing and a few others alone remain true to me. By the
way, I wonder where that Wyandot and Joe Farley are. Are they grieving
over my strange disappearance? How excited the savages are. I will act
upon the idea that occurred to me a little while ago. Oh! to regain my
liberty—to see Amy once again——”
His soliloquy ended in a long-drawn sigh. Softly whistling to the hound,
he set off toward the upper end of the camp. Apparently the Indians gave
no heed to him, as he made his way among them. Soon he had left them
behind and was at the eastern limit of the camp—and alone.
At this point a shallow ravine sloped into the creek from the south. Its
bed was half-filled with logs and brush, and its sides were covered with
a dense growth of tall bushes.
On reaching this natural barrier to his further progress, Douglas stopped
and hurriedly cast a glance behind him. He was several hundred yards
from the nearest group of savages. What was to hinder him from wriggling
through the tangled growth that lined both sides of the ravine, gaining
the open forest on the other side, and making his escape? The Indians,
busy with their own affairs, would not notice his absence for some
time—hours, perhaps. True, he had no arms with which to protect himself
from wild men and wild beasts, or with which to procure game; but he
could hide during the daytime, travel at night, and live upon bark and
roots until he reached a settlement. He resolved to make the venture.
Hope rose high in his breast. He whirled to take a final look at the
camp. As he did so, his heart sank into his moccasins. Unperceived by
him, three warriors had crept along under the shelter of the creek bank,
and now stood a few yards from him, closely eyeing his movements and
grinning broadly.
Mentally cursing his ill-luck, Ross turned to retrace his steps toward
camp. At that moment Duke rubbed against his leg and whined softly.
“What is it, old fellow?” the master asked, stooping and patting the
dog’s head.
Again the hound whined plaintively, and rolled his great eyes toward the
ravine a feet away.
“Something in there, eh?”
Duke wagged his tail and capered about. Ross’s heart beat tumultuously.
“It must be a friend, then,” he murmured tremulously. “If it were an
enemy—man or beast—he’d growl. Can it be possible that Bright Wing or
Joe——”
“Hist!” was the faint whisper that came to the young man’s ears and
interrupted his cogitations.
Duke gave a short, sharp yelp of joy.
“Hist!” said the voice again in the softest whispered tone. “I see you,
Ross Douglas—an’ I see the redskins watchin’ you. Me an’ Bright Wing’s
hid in the brush here. Don’t look ’round, fer God’s sake! Do you hear an’
understand me?”
Douglas slyly nodded.
“Well,” continued Farley’s voice, “listen to what I’m goin’ to say. We’ve
been hidin’ ’round the camp fer three ’r four days. We’ve come to rescue
you—but we can’t do it this time; you’re too close watched. Go back to
camp an’ never let on you’ve heerd anything. We hain’t had a bite to
eat fer twenty-four hours. We’ve got to move away from here an’ hunt
somethin’. To-morrer evenin’ at dusk, stray out here ag’in. Bring a gun
an’ ammynition with you, if you can. Come anyhow. We’ll git you out o’
y’r scrape ’r die a-tryin’—we will, by Kizziar! Now go—an’ tie up the
dog. He might come nosin’ ’round an’ spile everything. You hear all I
say?”
Again Ross almost imperceptibly nodded.
“All right. Be off—the Injins is watchin’ you mighty close an’
suspicious-like.”
Dropping his chin upon his breast, the young man walked toward camp, the
bloodhound trotting at his heels. The intelligent animal did not so much
as cast a look behind him. Shouldering their guns, the three warriors
brought up the rear.
On reaching the center of the camp, Douglas perceived the savages
flocking toward the Prophet’s cabin. He followed them; and in front of
the door saw Tecumseh and his companions. The great chief was addressing
the multitude:
“My warriors and people, I returned from the land of sunshine and
flowers, to find you defeated and scattered. In my anger, I heaped
censure and abuse upon one who was not to blame. I lost control of
myself—I bow my head in shame as I acknowledge it. Tenskwatawa has done
well; no one could have done better. _I_ could not have done better. He
is your prophet. You know his power—you trust him wisely. We have met
with temporary defeat, but final success shall be ours.”—Lusty whoops
and cheers.—“The tribes of the north and west are steadfast; the tribes
of the south have promised to join us. The Seventeen Fires shall feel
our might. Our white brothers across the big water will still aid us. We
shall regain the land that is ours; we shall repossess the graves of our
fathers. In a few days we shall remove to the villages of the Miamis,
upon the Mississinewa. There we will bide our time—await our opportunity.
It will not be long in coming. Hundreds of braves will join us. Their
number will be greater than the leaves of the forest. The Seventeen Fires
will tremble at the tread of the brave redmen and their English friends.
Scar Face”—and he laid his hand upon Bradford’s shoulder—“is your friend.
He has advised and helped us in the past; he will continue to do so.
He will see that our brothers across the big water send us plenty of
arms, ammunition, blankets, and food.”—Prolonged cheering and yells of
delight.—“I have done. Tenskwatawa, my brother, whom I love and honor”—he
affectionately placed his arm around the Prophet’s neck—“has something to
tell you that you will be glad to hear. Let him speak.”
The grave and dignified chief waved his hand and, drawing his blanket
around him, re-entered the hut. The assemblage went wild. Warriors
shouted, danced, and yelled; squaws shrieked and children screamed. Those
who had been foremost in the contemplated revolt lent their voices to the
mad uproar. Such was the magnetic power of the great Tecumseh!
Now the Prophet stepped forward and raised his right hand, to command
silence. As he did so, the magic circlet upon his finger caught the rays
of the sun. A hush fell upon his audience, broken only by the breezy
whisper,—“The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!”—Then all was
profound silence. Tenskwatawa swayed gracefully—rhythmically—to and fro,
as he began:
“The past is gone; the present is before us; the future is in the hands
of the Great Spirit. My children, we have made mistakes. Now let us bury
them forever; and with them our sorrows, our disappointments, and our
regrets. If ever again I transfer my power—my sign—to another, it will be
to one who can use it. And you will obey the orders of that one, as you
would obey my words. Hold fast to what I say. Listen! Again I have talked
with the Great Spirit. He has sent me to you with a message of good
cheer. He allowed you to suffer defeat to try your courage—to test your
loyalty. You have suffered much—you shall rejoice more. You have groaned
at your failure—you shall shout in triumph. You hunger to-day—you shall
feast to-morrow. Hear what the Great Spirit says through me, his prophet.
All that Tecumseh, my brother, has told you is true. All that you desire
shall be yours. You have been scorched by the fire of death—you shall be
healed by the water of life. I am your father—you are my children. The
Great Spirit has told me all these things.”
He stopped speaking. A faint murmur of approbation started with those
immediately in front. It grew and swelled into a thunderous roar of
applause. “The Open Door! The Open Door!” they yelled until their faces
were purple and their lips dripped foam. Many of them fell to the ground
and raised their arms supplicatingly. Silencing them with a wave of his
hand, Tenskwatawa proceeded:
“Listen, my children—and heed what I say! Your acts, your words, your
thoughts, are known to the Great Spirit—and through him are known to me.
You have cursed your prophet; you have planned to depose Tecumseh and
Tenskwatawa—to choose others to lead and advise you. The Great Spirit
understood all. But all is forgiven; for you were mad with defeat and
shame.”
Again he paused. Closely he scanned their faces for the effect of his
words. The stillness of death reigned on all sides. The ringleaders in
the revolt bowed their heads and glanced furtively at the dread being
before them. Suddenly the Prophet’s whole attitude and manner changed.
Every sinuosity of his graceful body became a hard, straight line.
Rigidly erect, his brows lowering, his face contorted, his one sinister
eye flashing—he was an avenging demon.
“Listen!” he shouted in thunder tones. “My children, you have displeased
the Great Spirit. Another word—another thought—of the kind, and he will
desert your cause and ally himself with the Seventeen Fires. If there be
one among you that doubts my words, let him stand forth; and through the
power the Great Spirit has bestowed upon me, I will slay him with a look.
With a motion of my hand I can smite you blind. Do you still doubt? You
have seen what I did with the noble Winnemac. Is not White Loon as brave
and strong? Is not Stone Eater as valiant and bold? Look then!”
Again he was the bending, swaying, sinuous hypnotist. The glittering
talisman upon his finger shot its light into the eyes of the two
chiefs. Like charmed birds they fluttered and tried to free themselves
from its spell. Their frantic efforts were vain. Then they became
stiff—motionless, seeing nothing but the magic ring, hearing nothing but
the Prophet’s voice.
“Come!” he cried.
In straight lines the two chiefs advanced.
Bradford paled slightly. La Violette turned aside her face. Ross Douglas
had his eyes fastened upon the glittering jewel. Slowly he began to
move forward. Many others were coming under the hypnotic influence—were
approaching Tenskwatawa. The young American shook himself, dropped his
eyes to earth—and retreated to a safe distance.
“Stop!”
Like automatons the chiefs obeyed.
“You see nothing—you are blind!”
Tenskwatawa’s voice rang out clear and cold. Scores of the savages
clapped their hands to their eyes and groaned aloud. Stone Eater and
White Loon uttered piercing wails.
“You are helpless—you drop to the ground—you sleep!”
Down they fell like tenpins—the two chiefs at the Prophet’s feet.
“Behold the work of the Great Spirit!” he shouted triumphantly. “Now who
doubts Tenskwatawa’s power?”
A full minute he waited for a reply. Awe—consternation—were written upon
the faces of those who had not come under his influence. At last he
clapped his hands and cried shrilly:
“Awake—arise! Live and see!”
Those upon the ground tumbled over one another, in their efforts to get
upon their feet. Rubbing their eyes, they stared stupidly around. Then,
in a shame-faced manner, they silently slunk away from the presence of
the red hypnotist, who, dropping his voice to a sing-song monotone,
continued:
“Yes, my children, all will be well. Your chief, the great and powerful
Tecumseh, has spoken words of truth and wisdom. Do not despair; be
steadfast to our cause. The Great Spirit is with us—and all will be well.
He has promised. In a few days, at most, we will go to the Mississinewa.
Our white brothers across the lakes and beyond the big water will send
us supplies. Also, we will make our enemy—the Seventeen Fires—furnish us
with salt and ammunition. All will be well. The Great Spirit, through his
prophet, has spoken.”
Tenskwatawa rejoined Tecumseh within the hut; La Violette returned to
her own cabin. The Indians cheered and capered about in an ecstasy of
delight. This lasted for several minutes. Then they quietly dispersed
and commenced the preparation of their dinners. All thought of rebelling
against the rule of the self-elected chief and self-appointed prophet was
at an end. The kingly presence and sturdy eloquence of the one, coupled
with the serpentine grace and mesmeric power of the other, had the
desired effect upon the minds of the ignorant and superstitious redmen.
The threatened revolt was at an end.
“Well, what do you think of Tecumseh?” remarked Bradford, as he
approached the spot where Douglas was standing.
“He’s every inch a warrior,” Ross replied quietly.
“And every inch a man,” was the quick rejoinder.
“But a savage, still.”
“Yes. But a savage whose valor is equaled by his honor, whose thirst for
fame and power is tempered by his sense of right and justice. He has the
good of his people at heart; he believes their cause is just——”
“Can you say as much for the English, who are urging the Indians to take
up the hatchet against the Americans?” Douglas interrupted. “Have they
the good of the savages at heart?”
Bradford laughed a forced, uneasy laugh as he answered:
“Please don’t interrupt me with ill-timed questions. That’s a matter
of national ethics—a problem that you and I cannot grasp or solve. It
would be useless for us to discuss it. We look at it from different
standpoints. You’re an American; I’m an——”
“American, also,” Ross interjected.
The older man sharply eyed his companion for a half minute. Then he said
slowly:
“You’re a keen and intuitive observer. By birth I _am_ an American; but
I’m in the service of the British, and bound to do their will. To return
to Tecumseh, he’s the noblest Indian I’ve ever met. He is the soul of
honor—the personification of manly courage. His word is as good as his
bond. His people trust him, love him. Had he been at the Prophet’s Town
there would have been no battle. He wished to avoid a conflict until
he was ready for it. But a general Indian war is coming—inevitably.
The Americans will be arrayed on one side; the Indians and British on
the other. The Americans will fight to hold what they have gained; the
savages, to regain what they have lost; the English, to add to their
territory. You have learned much since you’ve been a prisoner. It
wouldn’t do to have you escape and return to your people. A captive you
must remain.”
Bradford ceased speaking, but Douglas offered no word in reply. The
former resumed:
“Tenskwatawa, also, is a wonderful man. He’s eloquent, cunning,
forceful.”
“He’s a cowardly scoundrel!” Ross said savagely.
“Yes,” Bradford admitted, “he’s a coward. I don’t admire him. He’s a
hypocritical knave. But he’s devoted to La Violette, and you can’t deny
that he’s shrewd and eloquent.”
“No.”
“Nor can you explain the power he exercises over his people.”
Ross shook his head.
“It’s something wonderful, startling, uncanny. The more I see of it, the
more I’m puzzled. I have felt it——”
“And I.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“To-day.”
“Ah! And yet you cannot understand it?”
“No.”
“It _is_ strange—very,” Bradford remarked musingly. “He says he receives
his power from the Great Spirit. I’m not a believer in miracles; yet,
for all I know, he tells the truth. But he has the power—there’s no
gainsaying that. You didn’t come completely under his influence?”
“No; but I should have done so if I hadn’t exerted all my will-power and
removed my eyes from the talisman—his sign.”
“I understand. Well, I’m hungry. Let’s hunt something to eat.”
“Where did he obtain the ring?”
“I don’t know. He has had it for years. Come on.”
Together the two sauntered away from the vicinity of the Prophet’s cabin.
The day passed quietly. Several hunting-parties returned to camp, laden
with game. The savages had an abundance of meat for supper and retired to
rest at an early hour. Bradford and Douglas stretched upon the earthen
floor of their hut and fell asleep. Duke occupied his usual place. At
the door, stood the two copper-colored guards. About midnight Bradford
was aroused by the sound of voices outside. He arose, softly opened the
door, and stepped out into the darkness. It was raining steadily. The
two guards were parleying with a company of braves who demanded that the
hound be brought out and given to them.
“What are you doing here?” Bradford asked sharply.
The leader advanced and answered shortly:
“The big dog.”
“Who sent you?”
“Lone Jack, the Delaware chief.”
“Well, go back to Lone Jack and tell him I said to come himself—that I
will give him a taste of powder-and-ball instead of dog-meat. Be off!”
Grumbling and snarling, the braves disappeared in the darkness; and Scar
Face re-entered the cabin.
At that moment Douglas stirred uneasily and murmured:
“Joe and Bright Wing—come—rescue——”
Bradford raised his head and listened attentively. Ross’s lips were
moving, but the words were so softly spoken that the listener could not
catch them.
“Poor fellow!” the older man whispered pityingly. “He’s dreaming of
rescue. How sweet is freedom. Well—well, the whole of life is but a
dream—a miserable nightmare——”
“At the ravine—to-morrow evening,” Ross mumbled.
Then he sighed deeply, changed his position—breathing heavily—and again
slept soundly.
Bradford started and sat erect.
“Ah!” he muttered, shaking his head. “There _may_ be something in that
dream—more than I thought. At the ravine—to-morrow evening. What can
_that_ mean? I must investigate. Perhaps his friends are near—and he
has met them at the ravine above here. What more likely? Forewarned is
forearmed.”
And, smiling grimly, he replenished the fire, rolled himself in his
blanket—and was soon sound asleep.
[Illustration]