Pa turned his head slightly toward Jim and whispered, “I’m afraid it was a trick, Jim. Putting Wahbunou with his injured shoulder near our clearing, I mean. He probably reported we could be taken prisoner easily, since we had no near neighbors to help us.”
Jim glanced toward the Indian group, then at his father. “But, Pa, Wahbunou isn’t with these Indians. All the men and boys are sitting right over there together. Besides, we don’t even know if this is Wahbunou’s tribe.”
Pa looked at the group. Then he nodded his head. “You’re right, son. He isn’t there.”
Jim wriggled a bit trying to loosen the thongs which bound him, but with no success. “I wonder what they’ll do with us now, Pa.”
Pa tried to shake his dark hair away from his eyes. “Well, since they didn’t kill us on the spot, I wonder if they intend to deliver us to Hamilton in Detroit. You remember Colonel Clark said the British commander there was paying the Indians to bring white prisoners to him.”
Jim nodded. “Yes, I remember. But why, Pa? And where is this Detroit?”
“You remember when I was in Harrodsburg last year I heard about Great Britain waging a war with our countrymen back east. Now I think this British Hamilton in Detroit is figuring on winning all our Kentucky territory by having the Indians fight for him. They are to scare the settlers into returning back home or to capture them for Hamilton. I’m not sure where Detroit is, but I think it lies far to the north.”
Jim glanced toward the Indians again. “Look, Pa. They have our rifles and drum.”
Two men were examining the rifles carefully, while the rest of the Indians were passing drum and sticks from hand to hand. One of them began to beat the drum with his hand, making a low rhythmical sound similar to what Wahbunou had made in the Hudson’s cabin.
Jim listened intently to the Indians’ conversation, but he couldn’t understand anything. The words sounded like those Wahbunou had taught him, yet they were somehow different, so that Jim couldn’t get even an idea of what was said.
At last they stopped talking and began rolling in their blankets to sleep. Two men came over to the Hudsons, untied Pa and Jim, dragged them to separate trees and secured them again. One Indian rolled in a blanket beside Jim and the other beside Pa. But they offered no blankets to them, nor to Ma Hudson now fifty feet away.
The next morning they gave their prisoners a small amount of food. Ma tasted it and ate a little, but Pa and Jim ate all the Indians gave them. After breakfast, the women packed all the camp equipment together; the men tied the Hudsons’ hands, set them upright on horses and scrambled up behind them.
The entire party rode rapidly toward the north and west, arriving late in the afternoon at the broad Ohio River. The men chopped down poplar trees and began building a raft. Jim and Pa Hudson watched in amazement to see how quickly these Indians completed it.
Then they ferried women, children and equipment across the river. While some Indians guided the raft, others swam their horses to the far side. When all were safely transported, the band set up their camp for the night.
For several days they continued in a northwesterly direction. On a bright cool day they stopped at noon at a salt lick. The Hudsons realized the Indians would stay here for a while, because the women dug a trench, filling it with a great amount of firewood.
When their fires had burned to a bed of red-hot coals, they drew water from the lick and poured it into big salt kettles. These they placed over the hot glowing coals. Some women kept adding firewood to keep the salt water boiling; others began cooking over a second fire.
Pa, Ma and Jim were permitted to walk about the salt lick as far as the long leash around their waists permitted. But the Indians tied them to trees far enough apart so they could not come close to each other. Pa always would smile encouragingly at Ma and Jim, but he was never permitted to touch them. Two Indians were stationed to watch the prisoners, to prevent their escape.
The Indians wanted to build up their supply of salt, so the trench fires under the kettles were not allowed to go out. Several women took turns piling on firewood during the first night.
In the evening one man brought Jim’s drum to him, gesturing for him to play it. Jim played his loudest and best, executing ruffles and long rolls for their entertainment. The Indians loved these sounds and his skill with drumsticks, so kept him playing until quite late.
The next afternoon a new group of Indians arrived at the lick; but they kept a long distance away from the trench fires and did not offer to mingle with the first band. They also set up camp and dug a long trench, making a fire and filling their kettles with the brine. This salt lick was evidently common ground, since neither Indian band paid attention to the other.
By nightfall, the women were able to scrape the first salt from the kettles, spread it on rough boards to dry, and to fill the kettles with fresh brine.
Again the men had Jim play his drum for them. Soon they were swinging their bodies and clapping their hands in time with the drum. Once by the light of campfires, Jim thought he saw shadowy figures creeping close, as if to listen to his playing. He felt uneasy about what they wanted, but he continued to play even louder than before.
In the morning, when the women finally decided they had enough salt for the winter, they began packing their kettles and preparing to leave the salt lick. A few minutes before the band was ready to go, Jim saw four stalwart Indian men advancing rapidly toward them from the other camp. They came near and began making a fire in front of Jim’s group.
The men of Jim’s camp held a hurried consultation. Then one of them stepped forward, raising his right arm high above his head. Immediately the four visitors came up to him. He motioned for them to be seated; he and his companions sat down, too.
As they talked, Jim thought they must be arguing about some important question. After a long conversation, one visitor rose and walked back to his camp. He soon returned with a white man bound exactly like Pa Hudson.
At a signal from the group sitting on the ground, Jim’s guard suddenly untied his leash and led him over to the strangers.
More arguing went on, but the men of Jim’s camp kept shaking their heads. Again one visitor returned to his camp, carrying back a handsomely painted buffalo robe which he spread in front of the council. Jim’s band examined the robe carefully and nodded their heads. One of them called to the watching men. Immediately an Indian brought Pa Hudson’s drum and sticks to the council.
The visitors rose from the ground, handed their white prisoner and the buffalo robe to Jim’s band, and motioned to Jim to pick up his drum and sticks. As soon as Jim obeyed, one visitor picked up his leash and led him toward the other camp.
Frightened now, Jim looked back at his parents. Pa was alarmed and Ma, tearful, was holding out her arms toward him, but both of them were still tied to the trees.
When Jim reached the new camp, several men and boys swarmed around him. From their midst, a strangely familiar figure rushed over to Jim and took off his leash.
“Jim! Jim!” he cried. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Wahbunou.”
Jim dropped his drum in surprise as Wahbunou gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder. “Wahbunou!” he gasped.
Wahbunou was so excited he could scarcely speak, but he had much to tell his friend Jim. “My father and I persuaded Chief Minnemung to trade our white prisoner for you. We couldn’t bear to see you remain with the Shawnees. Then we Potawatomis made a fire in front of their camp to show we wanted to counsel with them.”
“Shawnees!” Jim cried out in terror, looking back toward his father and mother. The Shawnees, however, were now mounted and moving away from the salt lick. Jim could still see his parents riding on separate horses with their Indian guards, and looking hopelessly toward the Potawatomi camp where Jim had gone.
Jim turned frantically to Wahbunou. “Wahbunou——my parents! Where are they going? Don’t let the Shawnees take them away.”
Wahbunou shook his head sadly. “I tried, Jim, I really did. I wanted to have your parents traded to us along with you. But Chief Minnemung was interested only in you and your drum. The drum helped me arrange the trade, too.”
“The drum? What do you mean, Wahbunou?”
“The other night,” Wahbunou began, “we heard you playing your drum. It was the first time my people, the Potawatomis, had heard such playing. I knew it was not an Indian beating that drum, because I had heard you play like that in your cabin; so I persuaded Chief Minnemung and my father to creep close to the Shawnee camp to listen. It was then I saw you and your parents. I realized you were prisoners of those Shawnees.”
“But my parents, Wahbunou. Why aren’t they here with me?”
Wahbunou continued patiently. “I asked Chief Minnemung to see if he could get all of you transferred to us. I told him and all our Potawatomi clan how good you were to me when I hurt my shoulder. I pleaded, but Chief Minnemung wanted only you and your drum. Why Jim, he traded his handsomest buffalo robe for your drum.”
“But my parents will be unhappy separated from me,” Jim persisted.
Wahbunou sighed and nodded. “I know, Jim. But I think no harm will come to them now, because the Shawnees are on their way to Detroit to deliver their prisoners to the great British Hamilton. He pays the Indians well for white prisoners.” Wahbunou picked up the drum and sticks. “Come, Jim, I want you to meet my family because soon we will be breaking camp.”
Wahbunou’s parents, brothers and sisters welcomed Jim heartily into their group. His mother stroked Jim’s towhead and said, “Welcome, friend. We Potawatomis will be good to you.”
In a short time the Indians began packing to leave the salt lick. When they were ready, Wahbunou said, “Jim, you are to ride with me because we do not have extra horses.” He led Jim over to his horse. Jim recognized it as the one he had tied in their lean-to alongside Nellie.
The boys climbed up on the horse. “Now,” Wahbunou explained, “we are going to our winter camp. It is still a long distance away. Hang on tight, Jim, because we’ll be riding hard today.”
Jim did as he was told, but with a heavy heart. Here he was—going to some strange place with Wahbunou and the Potawatomis, while his mother and father were prisoners of the Shawnees. He swallowed hard, wondering if he would ever see them again.
Chapter IV
WINTER WITH THE POTAWATOMIS
The Potawatomis rode hard for several days against a biting northwest wind. Finally they stopped on the banks of the Au Sable River, in a wide valley protected by rolling hills. It was an ideal camp site because the hills protected the Indians from bitter winter winds.
Several families had already arrived. Wahbunou told Jim that these people were members of another clan in his tribe. His clan, the Golden Carp, always tried to return to this camp to hear news of their relatives and to share in the tribe’s winter sports.
The women began immediately setting up wigwams. These they made with poles fastened to the ground in a circle, and the tops drawn together in a cone. They covered this framework with their aquapois, or reed mats made of cattail flags, to shut out snows and winter winds.
The men rested a few days, then decided to go on a short hunting trip to get fresh meat. Early in the morning of the hunt, the men painted their faces with the vermilion, which Jim had first seen on Wahbunou’s face.
“Wahbunou,” Jim said, “why are the men painting their faces?”
Wahbunou turned from watching his father prepare for the trip. “They always wear it, Jim, when they go hunting or riding for a war raid. The day you found me in your country, I was on a hunting trip with my father and the other men. But I became separated from the rest. I was trying to catch up with them when I was brushed off my horse and broke my shoulder.”
“Do you usually hunt near our farm?”
“Oh, no. That was the farthest south and east we had ever ridden. But hunting wasn’t good in the places we knew. If you had not found me I would have died, because my people did not miss me until they returned to camp.”
Jim looked puzzled. “But didn’t they hunt for you?”
“Oh, yes, for several days. My father said they finally gave me up for lost, thinking I had been killed by a bear.”
“Then it wasn’t a trick that you happened near our clearing?”
“Trick?” It was Wahbunou’s turn to look puzzled. “What do you mean, Jim?”
Jim hesitated. “My father wondered if you had been placed near our farm to spy on us, and see if we could be easily captured.”
“Jim! My people would not do that. We have not raided any cabins this year. The prisoner we traded to the Shawnees had fired on Chief Minnemung. We had to capture him. And anyway, Chief Minnemung wanted his knife and gun.”
While the boys talked the men finished their preparations and were ready to go. Suddenly Chief Minnemung swung down from his horse and walked toward Jim. “You ride with me today,” he said, putting his hand on Jim’s shoulder.
Wahbunou gasped in surprise because none of the Indian boys had been asked to go on this hunting trip. Jim looked up at the tall, haughty chief, magnificent in his painted buffalo robe; he started to say he didn’t care to go. But the expression on Minnemung’s face told him this was not an invitation but a command.
“Yes—yes, sir,” he managed, wishing with all his heart he did not have to accompany the chief. “What shall I do to get ready?”
Chief Minnemung looked at him for a moment. “All right as you are. Come.” Then he turned and stalked back to his horse.
“It is a great privilege, Jim,” Wahbunou whispered, still amazed by the chief’s order.
Jim got on the horse behind the chief and the party of eighteen set out for the hunt. After they had ridden a little way into the forest, they separated into groups of two or three going in different directions.
But Chief Minnemung and Jim went alone. As they rode along Jim noticed that the chief was carrying a rifle like his father’s, and wearing a long knife also like his father’s in a wampum belt which girded his beautiful robe.
Jim pointed to the rifle. “You have a gun like my father’s.”
Chief Minnemung grinned a hideous grin through his streaked vermilion paint. “Shemolsea,” he grunted. Then he patted the big knife and again said, “Shemolsea.”
Suddenly Chief Minnemung reined in his horse. Then he tried to sight his rifle, but could not do it on the horse, so slid quietly to the ground. Once again he tried to sight the rifle. Jim looked to see what the chief’s quarry was. In the distance he saw a black bear, but it was too far away to shoot.
The Indian kept fumbling with the rifle and suddenly the sound of a shot broke the stillness of the forest. Chief Minnemung shouted in triumph and dropped the gun. He had fired the rifle. But his triumph was short-lived, for his shout was answered by an unearthly moan. He had wounded the bear which was now charging toward him. The old chief stood frozen in his tracks when he realized the rifle shot had not killed the bear.
Jim slid off the horse, grabbed the rifle from the ground, reloaded it and waited. The bear was coming nearer and Jim knew he must not miss his aim. The wounded animal would kill them, if he did not kill it first.
When the bear was only a few feet away, Jim fired. This time the aim was deadly accurate, piercing the bear between the eyes. It fell in its tracks.
Chief Minnemung waited a few moments, then turned to Jim. “White boy, Jim, you have saved Chief Minnemung’s life. I will not forget this moment. Minnemung not know how to use Shemolsea gun.”
The old chief was quite shaken and nervous, but with Jim’s help, he managed to truss the bear and get it back to camp. When the women and children saw Jim and Chief Minnemung returning with the big bear, they ran out to meet them, yelling in delight.
“Bear meat!” Wahbunou cried. “Now we’ll have a feast. Chief Minnemung got a bear with Shemolsea gun.”
The chief was grinning in delight, but never a word did he say about Jim’s shooting the bear. He took all the credit for the kill and did not so much as glance at Jim. Jim would have liked to tell Wahbunou he had killed the bear, but he was afraid Chief Minnemung would be angry, so he said nothing.
Late in the day the other men returned with squirrels and wild turkeys, but no large game. For several days the camp feasted on bear meat, while all the Indians praised their chief for bringing home such a prize. The chief still kept silent about Jim.
Soon winter came to the camp and the ground was covered with snow. Then the children had lots of fun. Wahbunou showed Jim how to make a sled, using buffalo ribs for the runners and hides for the seat. Jim found it was a fine sled and had fun coasting down the hills with the other children.
One morning when the snow was packed very hard, Wahbunou said, “Come on, Jim, we’re going to play Snow Snake.”
“Snow Snake? What kind of game is that?”
“We play it by teams with snow-snake poles,” Wahbunou explained. He took Jim to a long level playground in the valley where the other children had gathered. They chose sides, having six to a team. Then they drew lots to see who would throw the first pole. Wahbunou drew the first throw.
He picked up the hickory pole, the ends of which were carved like the head of a snake. He held it high and threw it with all his strength. The pole shot through the air for quite a distance and fell to the ground far from him. An older boy and girl served as scorekeepers and measured the length of its flight.
“Now, Jim,” Wahbunou urged, “do your best.”
Jim stepped forward and tried to throw the pole as far as Wahbunou had, but it fell far short. Jim sighed. “I’m no good at this game.”
“You’ll soon learn, Jim,” comforted Wahbunou.
Jim did learn to throw the snow-snake pole as well as the other boys. Sometimes Chief Minnemung walked out to watch the children; he always smiled when Jim threw it farther than the others. Quite often during the winter the chief called Jim to his Wigwam, to play Pa Hudson’s drum for him and sometimes for all the Indians.
Jim grew tall during the winter, had plenty of food and was snug and warm in the wigwam. He would have been happy with the Potawatomis if only his parents had been with him. But often at night he could not sleep, because he kept seeing his parents riding sadly away with the Shawnees.
After a long, cold winter, spring came again to the valley. One fine day Wahbunou told Jim he had heard the men say they would be moving out of winter camp the next morning.
“But tonight, Jim,” Wahbunou went on, “we shall watch the dance of the women. This dance celebrates the beginning of our summer wanderings. Then we’ll break up into small bands again and we won’t see the rest of our clan until next winter.”
Jim looked doubtful. “The dance of the women, Wahbunou? What is that?”
“Wait and see, Jim. Wait and see.”
When the women came out of their wigwams in their ceremonial dresses, Jim scarcely recognized any of them. They had greased their hair until it shone in the glow of the campfires, painted their faces with vermilion and put on long white chemises, over which they had strung all the wampum necklaces they possessed.
At their appearance four or five young men began singing and beating the dance rhythm on their Indian drums; often they shook the si si quoi, a sort of gourd containing dry seeds. The women danced in graceful rhythm, not missing a single step.
Jim thought the dancing beautiful, but he didn’t enjoy it as much as the Indians, because he grew very sleepy long before the dance was over. He didn’t know it would last well into the night.
The next morning, however, the camp was awake early with everyone getting ready to move. The women packed wigwam poles, cattail mats, kettles, winter buffalo robes and the rest of the camping equipment. Wahbunou’s mother packed Jim’s drum carefully among her belongings, so that he wouldn’t have to carry it on the horse.
All the Indians put on their summer clothes, one-piece garments of red or blue cloth. Wahbunou gave Jim one of his blue cloth shirts, just like the one he had been wearing when the Hudsons found him. Then everyone mounted their horses. Once again Jim rode with Wahbunou.
Chief Minnemung started northward with his group. Jim was to learn they would be constantly on the move during the spring and summer, as the Potawatomis had no lands of their own to cultivate. Frenchmen and some neighboring Indian tribes called them squatters because of their habit of moving in on land claimed by both the French and Indians.
As they moved back and forth across the Illinois country searching for game, wild berries and edible roots and herbs, spring gave way to summer. Now the prairie grass was as high as Jim’s head and the woods dense with foliage.
One morning while Jim was helping Wahbunou’s mother skin some squirrels, Wahbunou wandered away on some mission of his own. Wahbunou didn’t like to work; he specially didn’t want to skin squirrels, so he always managed to get away when his mother needed him. He was gone only a few minutes, however, then came rushing back. “Jim. Jim, Chief Minnemung wants to see you at once.”
Jim put down a squirrel and looked up. “Chief Minnemung? Where is he? I wonder what he wants.”
Wahbunou pointed to a group of men under a tree. “He’s over there. See? Talking with my father and some of the other men.”
Jim turned to Wahbunou’s mother. “I’ll be back soon. Chief Minnemung wants to speak to me.” Then he walked over toward the group of men.
At his approach the men nodded and walked away from their chief. Minnemung smiled at Jim and motioned for him to sit down beside him.
“Jim,” he said, laying his hand on the boy’s arm, “I have been watching you all winter and spring. Now I have come to a great decision.”
Jim waited, wondering what the old man would say next.
Chief Minnemung leaned toward the boy, his brown eyes stern and serious. “I have decided to adopt you as my own son.”
“Adopt me!” Jim gasped, a chill of fear passing over him.
The old chief continued as though Jim had not spoken. “I lost my only son two years ago with a fever. That fever took four of our most promising young men. I have been lonely, very lonely in my wigwam. But I have watched you all during the time you have been with us. I remember also that you saved my life on that hunting trip when I did not know how to use the rifle of the Shemolsea.”
Chief Minnemung did not take his eyes from the trembling boy. “But the greatest test of all you passed easily. You did not belittle me in front of my clan by telling them that you killed the black bear.”
Jim was startled. He hadn’t realized that Minnemung would have lost the esteem of his clan if the Indians discovered Jim had really killed the bear.
“So you see,” Chief Minnemung continued, “you have proved yourself worthy of adoption into the Potawatomi tribe as my son.”
“Adoption,” Jim murmured. It was the last gift he wanted, because it would mean he would be forever cut off from his own people. “But sir—” he began.
“We shall have the adoption ceremonies when the clans gather early in the fall,” the chief said. “I just wanted to tell you of this honor which awaits you.” Chief Minnemung nodded his head in dismissal. “That is all.”
Jim stumbled back; Wahbunou and his mother were still working with the squirrel skins.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” Wahbunou asked, when he caught sight of Jim’s stricken face. “Was Chief Minnemung angry with you? And for what?”
Jim shook his head. “No, he wasn’t angry. He wanted to tell me that he is going to adopt me as his son in the fall.”
Wahbunou dropped the skin he was cleaning. “Chief Minnemung is going to adopt you!” Wahbunou clapped Jim on the back. “Why, that means you’ll be the son of a chief.”
Jim hung his head and said in a low voice, “Wahbunou, I don’t want to be adopted by Chief Minnemung. And I don’t want to be a member of your tribe.”
Wahbunou stared at Jim, thinking he had not heard him correctly. “You don’t want to be Chief Minnemung’s son?”
Now Jim’s blue eyes were misty with tears. “No, Wahbunou. You and your people have been very kind to me, but I want my own people. I hope to find my father and mother. Don’t you remember that you didn’t want to live with us?”
Wahbunou nodded slowly. “But, Jim, you don’t know where your father and mother are. Nor do I. I only know they were prisoners of the Shawnees. And they live far to the east. We Potawatomis do not mingle with them.”
Jim’s lips trembled as he said, “If they’re still alive, I’ll find them some day, Wahbunou. I wouldn’t be happy being a real Potawatomi.”
Wahbunou sighed and was silent for a while. Finally he said, “Jim, I do understand that you want to be with your own people. Believe me. But Chief Minnemung has spoken. His word is law with us. There is nothing that my father or I can do to prevent your adoption.”
Chapter V
THE LONG-KNIVES
Several days later Chief Minnemung sent word around that everyone was to prepare for the annual trading trip to Cahokia. Soon the women were busy sorting the fur pelts they had accumulated during the winter and spring, and tying them in separate bundles according to kind. When all were sorted, Jim was surprised to see how many bundles there were.
“This Cahokia, Wahbunou? What is it?” Jim asked. He and Wahbunou were mounted on the horse ready to start on the journey.
Wahbunou smiled. “Cahokia is a French village a long way from here. We go there every year about this time. The French have a trading post and we’ll trade our furs for many supplies which we need.”
“What supplies, Wahbunou?”
“I’m not sure what we’ll get this trip, but sometimes we get food or blankets. I think Chief Minnemung may want to trade for guns and some powder. The French are our friends; we always stay a while in their village. Then we’ll move on for the annual council of our tribe.”
A shadow crossed Jim’s face at mention of the council, because Minnemung had told him the adoption ceremonies would take place there. Suddenly a plan of escape from the Potawatomis occurred to him. Perhaps he might be able to join the French while trading was going on; they might even help him find his parents. But he said nothing to Wahbunou.
The Potawatomis had been wandering southeast, but now they turned about and began riding in a westerly direction, bearing a little to the north. It was so warm they didn’t try to cover many miles in a day. Sometimes they stayed several days in their overnight camps. This was the season for ripe berries, so the Indians stopped often to feast on wild raspberries or dewberries.
One afternoon they happened upon a large berry patch bordering a heavy forest. Everyone ate his fill of berries while the women and children gathered some in their kettles and gourds to take with them. Wahbunou told Jim they would be leaving the forests now and riding through wide meadows of prairie grass. There would not be another opportunity to pick berries this summer.
The two boys tethered their horse, scrambling farther and farther into the brambles away from the rest of the Indians and seeking larger and larger berries. All at once Jim looked back and saw the Potawatomis riding away without them.
“Wahbunou!” he cried. “Look! Minnemung and the rest are leaving.”
Wahbunou glanced toward the disappearing group. “In a minute, Jim. We can catch them easily. Let’s get just a few more berries.” He pointed to a heavily laden bush nearby. “Let’s get those, then we’ll go.”
Jim glanced uneasily at the band of Indians now almost out of sight in the tall prairie grass. He didn’t want to be left in this trackless ocean of grass. “We’d better go, Wahbunou.”
Wahbunou tossed his head and laughed. “I can catch them easily, Jim. My horse isn’t far away and he’s faster than any save Chief Minnemung’s.” Then he turned again to the berries. The boys had been stuffing themselves with the delicious fruit for perhaps ten minutes, when Wahbunou’s horse suddenly began pawing the ground. Wahbunou cocked his head to one side and listened.
“I hear the sound of many feet, Jim. I think it’s the feet of many men.” Now it was Wahbunou’s turn to be alarmed.
Jim frowned. “I don’t hear anything, Wahbunou. Let’s be on our way.”
“You wait,” cautioned Wahbunou, seizing his horse’s bridle. “I don’t hear any horses’ hoofs, just the sound of men.” He led his horse to the edge of the berry patch, where he could see the broad expanse of prairie. The grass was almost as tall as Jim’s head, it rippled rhythmically in the wind, making it look like waves of the ocean. It had a sort of singing sound which Jim had never heard before.
“I hear only a sort of singing,” Jim said. “I think it’s the wind in this grass.”
Wahbunou put his finger to his lips. “Shh, Jim! They’re coming.” Then he signaled to his horse to lie down at the edge of the grass.
The horse obeyed immediately and none too soon either. The next moment the boys saw a band of white men marching out of the forest. And they kept coming, more men than Wahbunou could count. Just before they plunged into the thick prairie grass the boys could see they had long rifles and wore sparkling long knives in their belts. The sun shining on the knives made them visible even at this distance.
“Shemolsea!” gasped Wahbunou, dropping to his knees.
Jim also dropped down into the grass and turned to Wahbunou. “Wahbunou,” he whispered, “what do you mean by Shemolsea? I remember you said that word the day my father found you in the woods. And Chief Minnemung said his rifle was Shemolsea.”
Wahbunou whispered, “Shemolsea—Long-Knife. Men who carry long knives. You know your father had one. He is Shemolsea.”
“Oh! You mean all of us Kentucky settlers are Long-Knives?” Jim started to stand up, but Wahbunou pulled him down. “Do you want them to kill you, Jim?” he whispered in terror.
“Why, they wouldn’t kill us. Maybe I might know some of them.” Jim raised up to take another look at the men. Their column had turned southwest and Jim could no longer see their faces. There were so many men Jim was afraid to call out to them. “I wonder who they are and where they’re going,” he muttered, half to himself.
Wahbunou was whispering, “As soon as they’ve gone, we’ll have to ride fast and tell Chief Minnemung about the many, many Long-Knives we’ve seen.”
“I think I’ll go and join them,” Jim cried, scrambling up from the tall grass.
Wahbunou tripped him and he fell headlong. “No, Jim. That you cannot do. Chief Minnemung would kill me if anything happened to you. You must ride back with me.”
Wahbunou looked so frightened that Jim hesitated. He wouldn’t want Wahbunou punished by Chief Minnemung; nor would he want those Long-Knives, whoever they were, to attack the little Potawatomi band. For a few minutes he was silent. Then he said, “Wahbunou, I’ll go back with you, if you’ll promise not to tell anyone we saw these Long-Knives. Promise?”
“But maybe they’ll attack us,” Wahbunou replied doubtfully.
“Aw, those men aren’t marching after a small band of Indians,” Jim replied. “Is there any town near here?”
“Kaskaskia is over that way.” Wahbunou pointed in the general direction the column of men had taken. “It’s another French settlement. We do not go through it on the way to Cahokia. Cahokia is north.”
Jim shook his head. He still wondered where those Long-Knives were going—his Long-Knives. Why, they were his people! Suddenly he thought of another plan of escape, this time without involving Wahbunou. Here was his real chance. He turned to tell the Indian boy, but Wahbunou was on his feet signaling to his horse.
“Come, Jim. The Long-Knives have gone. I think we can ride now.” Wahbunou mounted his horse and Jim climbed on behind him.
As they rode through the prairie grass away from the column of Long-Knives, Jim said, “Wahbunou, I can’t go through with it. I can’t let Chief Minnemung adopt me into the Potawatomi tribe. My countrymen are close at hand. I can join these white Long-Knives and perhaps they will know something of my father and mother.”
Wahbunou trembled as he cried out, “Jim! You must not leave me. You must go back to Chief Minnemung. He will kill me if I return without you.”
Jim became thoughtful; then he said, “Wahbunou, it wouldn’t be your fault if I left the camp tonight.”
Wahbunou gulped. “You wouldn’t dare do that, Jim.”
Jim nodded. “Wouldn’t I? You did. You stole away from us and went back to your people.”
The Indian boy urged his horse to a faster pace. “Yes, Jim, I did. My people were going to a place I knew and I had a horse. You wouldn’t take my horse?”
“No, Wahbunou, I wouldn’t steal your horse. But you must promise not to tell anyone about seeing the Long-Knives. I’ll steal away at night. I’ll find those men.”
“But, Jim, you’d get lost in the dark. And Chief Minnemung would hear you. Indians have sharp ears.”
“I’ll have the stars to guide me. My father taught me to tell direction by the stars. The Long-Knives certainly won’t march all night. I’ll find them, never fear.” Jim clutched Wahbunou more firmly. “Now promise me—no word about the Long-Knives.”
Wahbunou gulped and finally said, “It shall be as you say. Wahbunou will say no word.”
Thus the two boys made a solemn pact riding back to the Potawatomi band.
When they finally arrived, the Indians had pitched camp in a small thicket adjoining the prairie. It was almost dark and the women had supper ready. Strangely enough no one had missed them, so the boys didn’t have to explain their absence. Evidently the Indians had neither heard nor seen the marching column of men, because they seemed as carefree as usual.
After supper, as the Indians sat around the campfire, Chief Minnemung suddenly took a notion to have Jim play his drum. “Jim,” he said, “get your drum and play for us.”
Nothing could have pleased Jim more. If his Long-Knives were within hearing distance and heard the roll of the drum, they might investigate the sound. He didn’t want to see his Indian friends hurt, but he did wish the Long-Knives would appear and take him with them. He rose quickly. “Yes, Chief Minnemung, I’ll be glad to play for you.”
Wahbunou’s mother had to unpack the drum from her housekeeping belongings, but she did not protest because Chief Minnemung had ordered Jim to play.
Jim beat the drum with all his might, executing some long rolls and difficult ruffles. Now and then he would toss a drumstick into the air and catch it again without missing a beat. At this the Indians grinned in glee at his skill.
Jim played until he was exhausted, all the while hoping to see the Long-Knives coming to the camp. But no one came, and nothing broke the stillness of the summer night save the beating of his drum.
At last Chief Minnemung signaled for him to stop playing. Immediately all the Indians lay down to sleep. Wahbunou’s mother forgot to pack Jim’s drum away, so he put it carefully down on the ground between him and Wahbunou. Then he lay down and pretended to sleep.
He listened for a long time until he felt sure everyone was asleep; then he took his drum and began to crawl slowly from his place on the ground. But Wahbunou was not asleep. At Jim’s first move he whispered, “Jim, are you leaving?”
Jim turned and patted Wahbunou’s shoulder. “Shh! Yes. Thanks, Wahbunou. I’ll never forget you.”
Wahbunou sighed but did not reply, so Jim felt sure his secret was safe with his Indian friend. Wahbunou would not fail him.
He continued to inch along the ground with the drum, stopping every few feet to see if any of the other Indians had awakened; but save for Wahbunou, the camp was silent.
When he was certain he was far enough away not to be seen, Jim stood up; he fastened his drum and drumsticks to the belt encircling his long blue shirt, and looked at the sky. It was a beautiful summer night and the sky was filled with stars.
He studied them for a few minutes until he located the North Star and the Big Dipper. Then he began walking southwest, the way the Long-Knives had marched in the afternoon. Except for twinkling stars, the night was very black, because there was no moon.
Jim trudged along and was soon beyond the little thicket, which broke the vast prairie. All through the long night, he made his way through the high prairie grass, hearing no sound save the singing of the wind.
When morning finally came, he found himself in the midst of a trackless ocean of grass, with no sign of any Long-Knives, no telltale path through the grass or sign of the Indians’ camp. There was only singing, swaying prairie grass, stretching toward the horizon in all directions.
Jim sighed, but walked steadily on, now and then scaring up a flock of prairie chickens which rose squawking into the air. Taking his bearings from the sun now, he knew he was going west.
The sun grew unbearably hot, making Jim very thirsty, but there was no water anywhere. Now and then he would look back to see if the Indians could be pursuing him. But he needn’t have worried. His slight figure left no trail through the prairie grass.
As the day wore on he became thirstier, and very hungry. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake to leave the Indians and try to find a band of strange men in this trackless country. Late in the afternoon he thought he saw a line of trees in the distance. He couldn’t be sure, because this steaming prairie grass played tricks with his eyes and he was afraid he saw a mirage. If he could only make it to those trees, he would lie down in the shade and rest a bit.
The trees proved to be real enough, and when Jim reached them he fell into their cool shade and fell asleep.
He was awakened after dawn by someone prodding his foot and a rough voice saying, “Get up, boy. Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Jim opened his eyes and saw two men standing over him. They were dressed in dirty, torn buckskins, with long knives hanging to their belts. The taller man was prodding him with a rifle.