Bob began to follow the footprints. At least Sandy must have intended to seek him, for he had commenced to chase after the fire.
"Oh!" gasped the boy, suddenly coming to a stop, and gazing in alarm at some new marks that met his eyes.
They were also moccasin tracks! More than that, they seemed to mingle with the smaller ones made by Sandy. Bob bent closer, his heart seeming to leap into his throat as a dreadful fear clutched him.
One thing he noted that gave him this new chill—every one of the new footprints toed in! He knew what this signified. White men seldom tread that way, but it is the universal custom of Indians to walk after the fashion called "pigeon-toe" as nature undoubtedly intended should be done.
Then Indians had been here,—after the fire, too; and poor Sandy must have fallen into their hands!
"Glory! but that was a hot time!"
Sandy thrust his head out of the hollow tree as he gasped these words. The fire had swept past as he crouched there, trying to hold his breath, and wondering if it would reach into the aperture and seize hold of his garments.
And now it was gone. He could hardly believe the truth, and that he had really escaped without any injury. Down the wind he could see the angry glow that marked the fire line. Here and there little blazes still remained, where a winrow of the dead leaves had offered fat pickings for the flames. And smoke curled up everywhere, sickening smoke that made the eyes smart.
"But what of Bob?"
That was the chief thought that surged through the mind of the boy as he crouched there inside his refuge and stared out at the strange scene.
"Oh! what if he did not find a place to hide? What if he was caught in the open? I can stand this suspense no longer. I must know the worst!"
As he said this with a quavering voice, he issued from the tree. The earth was still hot after its recent burning; but, by picking his way, Sandy believed that he might find it possible to walk on in the direction the fire had swept along.
He called to Bob as he moved. Once his heart seemed to leap into his mouth, for he thought he saw something move ahead; but, though he turned a little aside so as to advance that way, he failed to see it again.
Then he stopped to consider. Was it wise for him to wander off in this manner, without a definite plan? Had not Bob told him to stay where he was until he came? He might get lost, and only add to their troubles. Yes, perhaps he had better restrain his impatience, and wait a reasonable time to see whether Bob would not show himself.
It was while he stood thus, close to an unusually large tree, that something came to pass, possibly the very last thing in all the world Sandy was thinking about.
A pair of muscular bronzed arms suddenly closed about the boy. Struggling hard, and twisting his head back, he found to his horror that he was looking into the painted face of an Indian warrior.
Then he heard the brave give vent to a screech, which must have been some sort of signal, for immediately three other feathered heads popped into view, one of them from behind the very tree where Sandy had believed he saw something move.
In vain the boy struggled with all his might; his strength was not equal to that of the man who held him, and, when the four ugly looking red men had gathered around him, the nearest snatched his musket away.
"Ugh!" grunted his captor, suddenly releasing his arms.
Sandy stood there in their midst, white and alarmed, but trying to summon all his resolution. And, indeed, if ever the boy needed his courage it was at that moment, when he realized that he was alone and powerless in the hands of the hostile Shawanees.
Would they proceed to kill him then and there? He had heard terrible stories about the cruelty of these copper-colored sons of the wilderness.
Now they were jabbering away in an unknown tongue. Occasionally they would point at him, as though he must be the subject of their talk, as he had no doubt was the case.
"Oh! I wonder if they really mean to do it," was what Sandy was saying to himself, as he listened to the vigorous language, which to him was utterly without sense, although he felt sure that Colonel Boone could have understood every word of it.
Then he saw one fellow, who seemed to scowl, fingering his tomahawk in a suggestive manner that made Sandy's very blood run cold.
Thinking he saw a chance to bolt, the boy suddenly sprinted off. But ere he had gone twenty feet his arm was clutched in a dusky hand, and his flight brought to a halt.
At least one of his captors could speak some English, and he shook his knife in Sandy's face:
"No run—paleface boy try more, we kill!"
Sandy managed to pluck up a little fresh hope. From what the painted brave said, if he tried again to escape they would do something desperate. Did that mean they would let him live if he gave in, and allowed himself to be made a prisoner?
The man who gripped him held his hands behind, while another secured his wrists together with buckskin thongs. That looked as though they meant to take him along with them, perhaps to their village.
And so presently Sandy found himself marching along over the blackened ground, hedged in by a quartette of vicious looking Indians.
They paid little attention to him, though if at any time he seemed to slacken his pace, which was a jog-trot, such as Indians can keep up all day, he received, as a gentle reminder that he was to put on fresh speed, a dig in the ribs from one of those in the rear.
Sandy never forgot that little excursion. While he may not have covered a great many miles, his spirits were so low that it seemed the most miserable period of his whole life.
What had happened to Bob? That was the burden of his thoughts. He even found himself wondering whether his brother could have fallen in with these red men, and met with disaster. Then he noticed that one of the four carried a gun, and that it was such a weapon as the French traders used in dealing with the Indians, and not a staunch musket like the English possessed.
If Bob had escaped both the peril of the fire and that of the Indians, would he discover what had happened to his brother and carry the news home?
By degrees they had edged away from the burned tract. The wind had died out, and finally, after crossing a line of flickering flames that was making but poor progress, Sandy discovered that they no longer walked through blackened stuff, but upon leaves that had not felt the touch of fire.
"Why, there must have been a shower over this way," he said to himself, noticing that the ground seemed wet; and that was exactly what had happened.
He heard his captors exchanging remarks again, and from their manner guessed that the end of their pilgrimage must be close at hand.
"Perhaps it is a village they are taking me to," he said, remembering what he had heard from Blue Jacket.
Surely that was a dog barking somewhere ahead. Did the Indians have dogs? Yes, he remembered that this was so. Blue Jacket had told him how they had been bred from wolves, that long ago had been taken captive, so that they still possessed many of the savage traits that had marked their ancestors.
And then as they pushed out of the forest he suddenly set eyes on the Shawanee village. It stood on the bank of a small stream, no doubt a tributary to the great Ohio. There were scores of skin lodges, each one gaudily painted with rude scenes representing some stirring incidents in the lives of the braves who owned them.
In spite of the distressing condition in which he found himself placed, Sandy could not help feeling interested in the strange spectacle, for never before had he so much as looked upon a genuine Indian wigwam.
He was not allowed to enjoy it long, however. As soon as the news that a prisoner had been brought in was circulated among the dusky occupants of the lodges, the utmost confusion abounded.
Braves came thronging out to meet the returning warriors, squaws chattering, papooses squalling, and even half-naked youngsters adding to the clamor.
Poor Sandy was pinched and poked and pushed about at the hands of the throng until he really feared for his life. Angry looks were cast upon him. Apparently there had been braves who had gone forth from this village upon the warpath to return no more. They seemed to want to vent their anger upon the head of the white boy who had fallen into their hands.
Sandy was glad when they thrust him inside a lodge. So roughly was this done that the boy, rendered partly helpless by his bonds, reeled and fell on his face on the ground. Fortunately, however, the earth proved yielding, so that he was not seriously injured.
Struggling to a sitting position, he tried to bolster up his courage by remembering all that he had ever heard about Indian villages from Pat O'Mara, and also from Daniel Boone himself, during that day's tramp through the forest.
"And they said that these redskins like to burn their prisoners at the stake," Sandy whispered to himself, as he shook his head dolefully. "Oh! I hope they will never try that! I'm sure that was roast enough for me in that old tree. Perhaps now that old hag means to adopt me. She acted like it, when she threw her wrinkled arms around me, and jabbered so. And Colonel Boone told me how he was adopted into an Indian tribe, not long ago. She is a horrible looking old squaw; but better be made her son than—the other thing!"
The day slowly died, and Sandy looked to the coming of night with new terror. He could not exactly remember whether it was in the evening or the morning that the Indians always burned their prisoners.
"It would make some difference if I only knew," he said, with hope still fluttering in his boyish heart.
He had some difficulty in creeping to the entrance of the lodge, but was determined to peep out again and see if there were any grim signs, such as the planting of a stake or the gathering of brush.
"I can see nothing out of the way," he muttered, after carefully looking as well as the circumstances allowed.
Fires had been lighted, and the squaws seemed to be getting a meal ready, though, from what he had heard, Sandy understood that the red men have really no set time for eating, like their paleface brothers; simply waiting until they are hungry, and then satisfying the demands of nature with food.
It was a scene of bustle, with many dusky figures flitting about the fires.
"I wonder if I could manage to get away from here, in case I got my hands free?" Sandy was saying; but almost immediately he discovered that close by was a squatting figure, evidently a guard, for he held a gun in his hands and seemed to be intently watching the head of the prisoner.
So Sandy with a sigh drew back and waited for something to turn up. He was a most disconsolate figure as he crouched there, anticipating the worst; yet, while thinking of home and mother, trying to hope for the best.
Then suddenly he started. Surely that was not the voice of an Indian he heard! Again he scrambled to the opening and thrust out his head.
A neighboring fire lighted up the scene. It was of unusual size, and the boy immediately conceived the idea that the Indians meant to hold some sort of council, perhaps to decide his fate, for many were gathering around, with braves in the middle, and the squaws and boys on the outer fringe.
And standing close by, in earnest conversation with one who seemed to be something of a chief, was a man in buckskin, a white man at that. At first Sandy felt a quick pulsation of fierce joy. Just to see a white man among all these dusky sons of the wilderness seemed to give him fresh courage.
Then a spasm of chagrin passed over him, for he had remembered the stories told by Daniel Boone of those renegades, such as Simon Girty, who had turned their hand against their kind, and fought side by side with the savages, more cruel even than the Indians they had taken to be their brothers.
"But no, he must be a French trader," he said immediately, as he listened to the voice of the man in buckskin; "like that Jacques Larue we met when we stopped at Will's Creek on the way from Virginia. It is the same! Yes, now I can see his face plainly. Oh! I wonder if he would help me get away!"
Filled with this newly-awakened hope the boy prisoner lifted his voice and called out:
"Monsieur Larue! oh! come this way, if you please!"
"Who calls me?" exclaimed the French trader, looking around him in some surprise.
Evidently, although he must have known that the Indians had a prisoner, whose fate was to be decided at the council that was even then gathering, he could never have dreamed, up to now, that it was any one who knew him.
"This way, please, monsieur. I am here in the lodge! Just to your right; now, if you look down you will see me!" cried Sandy, eagerly, though, if asked, he could not have told just why he fancied the Frenchman would assist him in the least.
"Sacre! what haf we here? A young Eenglish viper, it seems. Ha! and surely ve haf before now met! Is it not so?" said the trader, as by the light of the council fire he saw Sandy's face.
"Oh! yes, it was at Will's Creek. You remember we came into the place just before you left there, monsieur? You asked my father ever so many questions about what his business was. I am Sandy Armstrong, the youngest of his boys."
"So, zat ees the vay ze vind blows? You belong to zat Eenglish colony zat mean to cheat honest men out of zere bread and butter. Worst of all, you own to being ze son of ze very man who would take away our trade with ze red men! Ho! Sandy Armstrong, say you? A very good evening to you, Sandy. It ees quite varm, but perhaps not yet so varm as it may be, eh?"
The words were filled with much more of bitterness than seemed possible on the surface. Although he had not yet appealed to the trader for assistance, Sandy understood that no matter what he said, it would never touch the stony heart of the Frenchman. Jacques Larue was one of those frontiersmen who, having spent much of their lives amid scenes of turmoil and violence, could not listen to a plea for mercy, especially when uttered in an English voice.
"But I am a prisoner here, and these Indians may mean to put me to death?" the boy went on, making a last effort to touch the trader.
With a shrug of the shoulders the indifferent Frenchman answered back:
"Zat would be a great pity—for ze muzzer. But what would you haf me do? Zese Indians haf been my good friends. Zey haf lost many of zere best braves in zat battle with your people. It is ze habit of ze red men to put prisoners to ze death. I am sorry for you, boy; but my business it ees too valuable to reesk it by offending zese friends. So again, I bid you ze good evening, young Armstrong."
Trembling with indignation, Sandy cast discretion to the winds.
"Yes, I know why you will not lift a finger to try and save me!" he cried aloud; "you hate my father just because he expects to trade honestly with the friendly Indians. I have heard Colonel Boone speak of you and your breed. You set the redskins against the English—you fill them with firewater, and start them out on the warpath, to burn and murder. You are like a snake in the grass, Jacques Larue. And some day the rifle of a true borderer like Boone will lay you low!"
The Frenchman could hardly believe his ears. For a mere youth to brave him thus to his face staggered him. He took a step toward the lodge, and half raised his arm as though tempted to strike the boy.
"Yes, that would be just like a man of your stripe, Monsieur Larue. Helpless, a prisoner, and with my hands tied behind my back, hit me if it please you!" dared the impetuous lad, not even deigning to move back into the recesses of his lodge.
"Sacre! I forgot!" muttered the Frenchman, bringing himself up with a round turn; and, whirling on his heel, he strode off toward the circle of braves.
Presently several warriors were dispatched to convey the captive to the council ring. One of them Sandy recognized as the fellow who had spoken a few words of English at the time of his capture.
"Cut my hands loose," he pleaded, backing up to this brave in a suggestive manner. "Surely you need not be afraid of my running away. But my arms are so tired of being cramped in this way. Use your knife, Mr. Eagle Feather!" for, though he had no idea of what the name of the brave might be, he recognized the three feathers in his scalp-lock as belonging to the king of birds.
"Ugh! paleface boy say true. No danger run away!" and with the words the other drew his knife, the same with which he had once threatened Sandy, across the stout buckskin thongs.
"That feels better; and thank you for it," observed the boy, with a nod, as his hands fell apart, and he could chafe his numb wrists into a state of feeling.
"Ugh! paleface boy much brave! Tell Swift Bullet him fool! Ugh!" said the warrior, as he took hold of Sandy's right arm, a companion leading him on the left.
From these few words the boy understood, first, that the French trader must go by the name of Swift Bullet among the Shawanees; second, that the brave had heard all that had just passed between them; and, last of all, that possibly he did not chance to bear the best of feelings toward the French trader, since he evidently admired the stripling who dared defy Larue.
When he found himself in the midst of that great throng Sandy's heart misgave him. Every face around the triple circle of braves looked dark and forbidding. In fact, aside from this single warrior who had helped capture him, he did not seem to have a single friend in the village.
The French trader was present, sitting cross-legged beside the head chief. He smiled most of the time, as though simply amused at what was going on. Evidently Jacques Larue cared precious little whether the council decided upon the death of the young English pioneer or not. He looked upon all such as a breed of vipers, to be treated with scant ceremony whenever encountered.
Of course Sandy could not understand what was said, so far as words went; but there was no mistaking the gestures of the speakers, some of which were passionate and striking. They were calling for his blood! Those who had fallen in battle must be avenged. Boy or not, he belonged to the hated English, and was not their country, given to them by the Great Spirit, being invaded by these bold compatriots of Boone and Harrod?
Those very names were mentioned, and by Indian lips. Somehow, in his great extremity, the imperilled lad seemed to draw new inspiration from just hearing that magical name of Boone. He noted that every time the chief uttered it there was an uneasy movement that passed through, the entire assemblage; while many a head was half turned, as though a sudden fear had sprung into being lest the famous borderer make his appearance there before them, demanding that the prisoner be released.
What manner of man could this be, that even the mention of his name should cause a shiver to pass through an Indian council?
"I believe they're going to do it!" Sandy whispered to himself, when he saw how still more threatening looks were cast upon him.
Then came the medicine man, dressed in most fantastic garb, and wearing a head of a bear, that had attached to it the horns of a buffalo. Into the circle he danced, waving his hands, and crooning some weird song that seemed to hold his hearers entranced, though to Sandy it sounded like the worst gibberish he had ever heard.
But soon he, too, was following the movements of the old charmer with deepest anxiety; for it became impressed upon his mind that, after all, much depended on what he might decide. The medicine man was believed to be in direct communication with the Great Spirit, and could, after certain incantations, learn what the will of the Manitou might be.
If he said that the prisoner must be burned, nothing could save Sandy. On the contrary, should the medicine man declare that the voice of Manitou declared that some other fate be meted out to the paleface captive, his word was law.
Just then Sandy had his attention called to a movement in another quarter.
"Oh! there is the old squaw who hugged me!" he exclaimed, almost holding his breath in suspense; "and she seems to be wanting to jump forward when the right time comes. All may not be lost. Perhaps I could never love her; but I'd be grateful if she saved my life!"
Once the boy had been seized with a sudden hope, and had eagerly scanned each and every face in all that triple circle.
"No, he is not here," he muttered in a disappointed tone; "perhaps he never got back home. Perhaps his wound broke out again, and he fell by the way! Such hard luck!"
He was thinking of Blue Jacket, the young brave whom he and Bob had nursed back from the border of the grave. But Blue Jacket was certainly not there; or, if so, realizing his inability to help his young white friend, he kept his face hidden in his blanket of buffalo skin.
And now the dancing medicine man's movements grew more rapid. He whirled his arms more violently above his head, and the various metal ornaments which were hung about his person jangled not unmusically, adding to the weird aspect of the scene.
Apparently he had reached a point where he was about to launch his decision at the waiting warriors. Just then the harsh voice of a squaw was heard, and the old woman whom Sandy had noticed jumped into the ring, speaking eagerly, and making all sorts of impressive gestures with her talon-like hands.
The prisoner shuddered as he gazed; but something like gratitude entered his heart. Repulsive as she appeared, the old squaw was trying to save his life!
He watched the actions of the medicine man closely, as though he could tell in that way whether the request of the bereaved squaw would be granted, and the prisoner turned over to her to take the place of the son who would never again bring home to her lodge a share of the spoils of the hunt.
Then the boy's very heart seemed to turn cold. Something about the manner of the entire assemblage seemed to say that the sentiment of the council was adverse. And doubtless the wily old medicine man usually gave the answer just as he saw it expressed on the faces of the warriors!
They would condemn the prisoner, then, to be put to death! Brave lad though Sandy had shown himself on more than one occasion, he might easily be pardoned for experiencing a cold chill when the truth broke upon him.
He seemed to feel a choking sensation in his throat, as though he could hardly breathe. Somehow, just at that moment his mind flew far away to the bank of the great Ohio, to a new cabin he could picture, where a grieving woman sat beside the large fireplace, and there was an empty stool at the rough table.
"Mother!" he whispered, softly.
And then he shut his teeth hard. At least they should not see him quail, these copper-colored men of the wilderness. Always had he heard that, above everything else, Indians admired bravery. When death in its more terrible aspect faced them, they pretended to show utter contempt, laughing their enemies in the face, and mocking them with their last breath.
Well, he was an Armstrong! They had ever been a hardy race, and across the water had always taken a share in all the wars that rent Old England. He would show that, though but a boy in years, he had inherited the spirit of his ancestors. Not one groan, not one cry for mercy, would they hear falling from his lips!
The squaw ceased to implore. She had fallen back to wait for the decision of the wizard, who was once again beginning to wave his arms about, and fix his mincing steps to keep time with his singsong words.
Sandy was keeping his eyes glued upon the swaying figure. There was a sort of fascination about it all, just as though his own life did not hang in the balance.
"It's coming!" he muttered, presently, as he saw the heads of the warriors inclined eagerly toward the magician.
Sandy was conscious of a little confusion near by. He could not tear his eyes away from the dancer long enough to ascertain what it meant. Perhaps some prowling dog had been caught by a squaw stealing from her lodge, and was being soundly kicked and berated in consequence.
The sounds were really coming closer. Loud voices could be heard, excited voices too, but in the Indian tongue. Sandy was not much interested, because he fancied that it was only some late comers, who were demanding to be told what the council was about, not knowing of the capture of a white.
Now he could not help noticing, because there was a swaying of the outer lines, where the squaws and boys congregated. Louder grew the voices. Even the medicine man paused in the act of delivering the decree of Manitou, and every face was turned toward the quarter whence the growing clamor sounded.
And as Sandy, half starting to his feet, stared, and held his breath, he saw a figure he knew only too well come limping into the lighted arena.
It was Blue Jacket!
Yes, it was Blue Jacket, but apparently a wreck of the young Indian whom Sandy had last seen under the friendly roof of the new Armstrong cabin.
He was blackened with smoke, his buckskin garments showing holes that the forest fire had burned; the proud feather that had once adorned his scalp-lock hung low over his ear, and broken; he seemed hardly able to drag himself past the wondering squaws, and reach the centre of the triple ring of warriors.
But it was Blue Jacket, alive and in the flesh, for all that.
"Glory! he has come home just in time to save me!" Sandy kept saying to himself, as he stared. "And that terrible old medicine man was going to seal my fate! Glory! could there be any greater luck? And didn't dear old Bob say the bread we cast upon the waters might return ere many days? Yes, it has come back, principal and interest!"
Every eye was fastened upon the figure of the young brave. Not one present at the council fire but knew he had a story to tell that would thrill their souls. Even the squaws, seldom allowed to listen to the serious councils around the sacred fire, bent forward, the better not to lose a single word.
Blue Jacket began to speak. At first his manner was sedate. He was telling of how he had fought in that night battle, of the wound that had left him on the field and how he crept away, hoping to return to his lodge among his people.
Then Sandy, who could fairly interpret from his manner, knew that he spoke of finding himself alone, weakened from loss of blood, and unable to even call for assistance.
Expecting to become the prey of wild beasts during the night, he had, with the stoicism of the red man, awaited the end calmly. Then came the paleface boys. His bronzed face lighted up as he told how they tenderly carried him to the brow of the hill overlooking the river, and cared for his wounds.
Now he became dramatic in his recital, and held his hearers spellbound. Surely he was speaking of that white mother now, telling how she advised that he be cared for and made well. It was such a revelation, so entirely different from all that the savage Indian nature understood, that the old men wagged their heads from time to time, and looked at one another helplessly.
Blue Jacket went on. Now he was telling of one paleface warrior who had sought his life, and how those boys stood between. Sandy guessed this. He was hanging on the excited words of the young Shawanee just as though he could fully grasp the full sense of the harangue.
Suddenly Blue Jacket ceased. Striding forward as well as his lame leg would permit, he threw a protecting arm across the shoulders of Sandy, as he faced once more the throng of red men.
"My brother!"
That was all he said, but his manner told the story. He stood ready to sacrifice his life, if need be, to save this paleface lad from the stake. Simple, yet eloquent beyond description, was his attitude as he thus stood there.
Would his will prevail? Had his rough eloquence reached the hearts of those sons of the wilderness?
In years to come the name of Blue Jacket was fated to pass into the pages of history as a famous Indian orator, who could sway the minds of his people as few others were able. And in this fierce harangue, delivered in his youth, he made a reputation as a leader which was to follow him in all after years.
The old men exchanged looks. They nodded their heads gravely.
"I surely believe he has turned the scale!" breathed the anxious Sandy, noting these significant signs.
The shrewd old medicine man could not always foretell the weather; but he was able to discern a sudden change in the wind of popular approval. Before this dramatic coming of the young and wounded brave he knew the consensus of opinion ran strongly toward putting the prisoner to the stake. It was different now!
And so the wily old fellow once more started his incantations and whirlings, just as though he were taking them up at the point where he had been interrupted; but with a decided difference that even Sandy could notice.
His manner now was not fierce and ugly; he no longer made swift downward strokes with his extended arms, but extended them upward in a beseeching manner, as though imploring Manitou to have mercy.
Then, after a supreme exhibition of his powers, with a great rattling of wampum belt, and jangling metal discs that were strung about his person, he moved over to where Sandy stood, with the dusky protecting arm of Blue Jacket still flung about his shoulders.
Holding his hands above the white prisoner, the medicine man uttered a string of words, amid much bobbings of the head. Although he could interpret not a single expression, Sandy knew full well that in this way the wizard was declaring he had been taken under the especial charge of the Great Spirit, and that henceforth no Shawanee hand should be raised against a member of the Armstrong family.
The French trader had listened to all this with a sneer on his lips, while his face grew dark as though it pleased him not a bit.
Sandy had little discretion, as we have seen more than once. With his usual impetuosity he could not restrain himself from flashing a look of triumph toward Jacques Larue. The trader saw it, and gritted his teeth. After that, he would doubtless feel more than ever a vicious spite against anything that bore the brand of an Armstrong.
"Come!" said Blue Jacket, leading Sandy away.
"With the greatest of pleasure," replied that worthy, feeling as though a tremendous weight had been taken from his shoulders, as indeed was the case.
The young Shawanee led his white brother to his lodge, where an old squaw, his mother undoubtedly, proudly awaited them. Nothing was too good for the paleface who had saved the life of her boy. But first of all, Sandy insisted upon the wounds of the young warrior being dressed.
"You must have been caught in the fire, too, Blue Jacket!" he declared, as he noted the condition of the warrior's scanty garments, which at least had been whole at the time he was in the new settlement.
"Much time, Sandy. Near gone when reach creek and dive in!" replied the other, simply.
And that was all he could be persuaded to say about his adventure, yet Sandy felt positive that the young brave must have gone through a thrilling experience, with the fire surrounding him, and wounded in the bargain. He could picture what Blue Jacket declined to relate.
"They have spared my life, Blue Jacket," observed the white boy, after a time, when he had assisted the squaw to bind up the reopened wound of the brave once more; "but do they mean to keep me here a prisoner? Am I to never see my people again—dear old Bob, Kate, father, and my mother?"
The budding warrior looked at him, and actually a faint smile came upon his face. Sandy could not remember having ever seen him show so much feeling before.
"You wait, Sandy," he said in a low voice; "leave that to Blue Jacket. Give word Bob you be free. Me no fail! Never forget him mother, not much!"
But Sandy had caught one word that riveted his attention.
"When did you promise Bob to save me? Where did you see him, Blue Jacket?" he demanded, eagerly.
"Me leave since sunset. Bob fix best can," and saying this the young Indian pointed down at his injured limb.
"Do you mean that you have been with my brother since the fire?" cried Sandy, his face lighting up with a great joy, for that would tell him Bob could not have been injured in the forest conflagration, as he had greatly feared.
Blue Jacket nodded gravely in the affirmative. English words did not come readily to his lips, and, when he could make a gesture take their place, he seldom failed to do so.
"Bob find in creek. Him help 'long. Leg bad; much limp. Blue Jacket make like papoose. Get here just in time. Not much good. Ugh!" he grunted.
"Then Bob came along with you?" persisted Sandy, determined to drag the whole truth out by degrees.
"Come 'long, yes. No think safe enter village. Hide in woods. Wait till fox him bark three times. Bob know. Bob safe!"
"Hurrah! that's good news you're telling me, Blue Jacket!" exclaimed Sandy, exultantly. "So Bob is safe, and near at hand right now! Why, he never even went back to the settlement to tell the story, and get assistance. Surely he is a brother to be proud of. Tell me, Blue Jacket, did he send any message by you? Have you got any of the white man's writing to give me?"
Whereupon the other gravely drew something from the bosom of his torn hunting shirt, and extended it to Sandy.
"Me forget. Bob say all right. No can understand spider crawl on bark. Sandy know. Bob tell," he said quaintly.
There were not many words, and these had been scratched by some sharp-pointed flint, so that it was only with an effort that the boy could make them out by the light of the fire in front of the lodge.
"Sandy:—Keep up a brave heart. We are going to get you out of there to-night. Trust Blue Jacket. He is true as steel. Bring gun.
"Bob."
Sandy smiled as he saw that reference to the old musket; and yet, after all, it was not so strange that cautious, wise Bob should remember how much of their anticipated pleasure in hunting during the months that were ahead would be taken away if Sandy were without a weapon.
He read the message aloud to his friend. Blue Jacket evidently saw nothing singular about that mention of a gun. He knew what it meant to be without the means of obtaining food in that great wilderness. What bow and arrows, a tomahawk, or a crude knife, meant to an Indian, a gun stood for in the eyes of a white man. And so Blue Jacket only nodded his head gravely as he listened, saying finally:
"Get gun all right. No fear. Much skins here. Swap with brave for gun. Go now."
He evidently believed in striking while the iron was hot, for, stooping down, he gathered in his arms several valuable skins, among them some beautiful otter pelts, and started out.
The squaw never raised a finger to interfere, yet she knew that Blue Jacket was very weak and sore from his tremendous exertions in trying to escape from the pursuing fire. And she was his mother, too. But then Sandy realized that Indian mothers differed in many respects from those of white boys. Blue Jacket, was he not a warrior now, and as such fully competent to decide for himself? The old squaw no doubt would have held her tongue had he declared it to be his intention to start back to the white settlement with Sandy, even though she knew it must be the means of bringing about his death.
Sure enough, Blue Jacket must have gauged well the temper of the brave who had obtained the old flintlock musket, and knew just how to wheedle him out of his recent prize, for, when the young Indian returned, he placed in Sandy's eager hands not only the gun, but all other things taken from the prisoner at the time he fell into the hands of the four Shawanee warriors—his powder horn, carved with considerable rude skill by Bob, the bullet pouch decorated with colored porcupine quills, his hatchet, knife, and even the little bag, in which Sandy was accustomed to keeping his flint and steel, some dry tinder for starting fires, and a few trifling odds and ends.
"Why, my brother!" cried the delighted white boy, "you are a bigger medicine man than the old fellow who danced, and shook those hollow gourds with the dried beans inside. Here are all my belongings, with not one thing missing. Oh! I tell you, it was a fine day I discovered you there in the grass, Blue Jacket. For you have returned what little we did a dozen fold!"
But evidently the young Indian had his own ideas about that, for he shook his head, and made a grimace. He would never forget how those boys had stood between when the irate settler, Anthony Brady, demanded his blood!
"No can repay. Armstrong name never can forget. You see. To-night we go away. Bob wait to show way home. Blue Jacket him not able go far. Much sorry!" he said, as he limped about the lodge to try his poor limb.
But Sandy gripped the Shawanee's hand, while his boyish face fairly beamed with the affection he felt toward the gallant young savage.
"When can we go, Blue Jacket?" asked the boy, with his usual impatience.
"No can get away yet some time. Sandy look out," came the reply.
"Well, I see what you mean," admitted the prisoner, reluctantly. "There does seem to be considerable of a stir around. Everybody is moving about. Even the dogs seem to be prowling around sniffing at things."
"Ugh! much stir. Talk heap. French trader try to palaver with chiefs. Make think English bad men. Steal Indian country, kill squaws, papooses, all. Ugh!" and, from the way Blue Jacket said this, it was evident that he feared the influence of the smooth-voiced Jacques Larue would undo all the good his harangue had accomplished.
Not that his people would think of putting Sandy to the stake. That bugbear had been effectually squelched after he had told how kind the two Armstrong boys had shown themselves to him. But they might refuse to let the prisoner go free, demanding that he be forced to join the tribe. The lodge was still to be a prison, for the squaw had betaken herself off, and Blue Jacket had said he would not be allowed to stay with his white brother.
Even Sandy understood something of his danger. Perhaps it had to do with his impatience to get away from the village, with its clamor and its strange inhabitants.
He remembered the skinny old crone who had wanted to adopt him as her own son. She meant it all in kindness, perhaps, but the very thought made poor Sandy shiver.
"But look here, Blue Jacket, what about Bob?" he said, presently, after he had turned away from peeping out at the exit of the lodge.
"Bob wait," replied the Indian with his customary taciturnity.
"Yes, but when time passes, and I fail to come, he may get impatient and do something that will get him into trouble?"
At this the young Indian shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps he had caught the manner from the French traders, oily men who often visited the Shawanees in their villages to barter poor guns and powder for their valuable pelts.
"Bob no Sandy!" was his only comment; and it struck home, too, for the one who heard gave a little chuckle, as he hastened to reply:
"You are right about that, Blue Jacket; and perhaps it's just as well that he is not. One hothead in the family is quite enough. But you think, then, Bob will bide his time patiently, and wait to hear from you?"
"Him say," answered the other, calmly.
"Oh!" observed Sandy; but he saw a great light.
It told him what a distinct impression that sober brother of his must have made on the observing young Indian during the week of their intercourse. Accustomed to reading people just as Sandy might the pages of a printed book, Blue Jacket knew that, when Bob Armstrong said a thing, that was just what he meant. His simple word was, in the eye of this native of the woods, as good as another's bond.
Presently Sandy spoke again, for he could not keep his mind long off that fascinating subject.
"Is he near the border of the village, Blue Jacket?" he asked.
"Much close. Blue Jacket him hide Bob. No can find. P'raps dog smell him. Not much danger that. You wait. Sleep. Time come bimeby. Blue Jacket crawl in lodge, wake. Make not noise, but move like snake. Ugh!"
With that the young Indian abruptly left him.
Sandy threw himself down on the blanket and bearskin which he found in his prison. Perhaps what the Indian suggested would be a wise thing for him to do. He was very tired, and trembling with excitement. Of course, he hardly hoped to sleep any; but even lying there would rest him more or less.
But, despite his fears, he must have passed away into dreamland very shortly after dropping on the soft robes, for he could not remember doing any great amount of thinking over his past troubles and the uncertain future.
A cold hand touching his face awakened him.
Before he could utter a sound he heard a low hiss that warned him against making a single exclamation. It was well Blue Jacket adopted this course, because naturally Sandy supposed himself safe at home, in his own newly-fashioned bed, and that it was Bob who had disturbed his dreams.
Instantly he understood. The skin lodge was almost in darkness. Still, something of a flickering light seeped in through little openings at the entrance; and he could just manage to make out a bending figure that crouched beside him.
"Is it you, Blue Jacket?" he whispered softly, as his hand went out to feel of this figure.
Again that warning hiss greeted him. Then there was a gentle pull at his buckskin tunic, which Sandy could not mistake. His ghostly visitor wanted him to follow his lead.
Expecting some such summons, Sandy had made all preparations for a quick departure. His precious gun was lying close beside him; moreover, he had secured powder-horn, bullet pouch, and all other belongings, so that nothing would be left behind.
Blue Jacket turned and crawled away. To Sandy's surprise the young Shawanee did not head toward the opening of the lodge; but common sense told him why. There was a fire still burning out there, and possibly some brave might awaken just at the critical moment when they were passing.
Evidently Blue Jacket had crept in at the rear, and meant to return the same way. He knew the possibilities of his own wigwam. Sandy wriggled his body under the tightly drawn skin that, with its fellows, formed the wigwam. He could just barely see the figure of his guide moving off ahead. And, when Blue Jacket had said they must glide like the snake that goes upon its belly, he certainly hit the truth, for Sandy could not discover the slightest movement of either arms or legs. Still the other made fair progress.
Between lodges, avoiding the smouldering fires, they went. Surely the red guide must have figured every inch of the route in advance. Not even a dog seemed to be along the course; and Sandy's admiration for his friend increased by bounds with every yard that they advanced.
He had been wise enough to observe the location of Blue Jacket's lodge, and hence knew that they were now heading in a general way toward the bank of the small stream near which this temporary hunting camp of the Shawanees had been located.
This gave him a sudden and brilliant idea. Bid Blue Jacket mean that they should make their escape by water? It would save many weary miles of tramping, which task Sandy was not in very good physical condition to undertake.
More than once the dark figure ahead came to a pause, and lay as still as a log. Sandy was keenly awake to the situation, and copied his actions to the letter. On one occasion a couple of dogs came running past, having evidently been hunting on their own account in the forest. They stopped to sniff the air, but luckily they were not on the windward side of the crouching figures; and so the presence of a paleface was not discovered; for soon they went on among the lodges, to lie down and rest after their long chase.
Another time it was a moving warrior who caused alarm. But he seemed to have only been down to the river for a drink, for he walked past the spot where the two shadows lay without any suspicion that anything was amiss.
It was an exciting time for poor Sandy, and his heart seemed to be up in his throat with suspense as he kept his agonized eyes fastened on that tall, dusky figure, until it was lost among the neighboring lodges.
All now seemed well, and the coast clear. Rapidly Blue Jacket advanced. No longer was he content to wriggle like the rattlesnake. He had first arisen to his knees, and finally to his feet. True, he limped sadly, and Sandy knew that, with an Indian's stoicism, his guide must be repressing the groans that a white boy would have uttered.
"He's game, all right," Sandy was saying to himself, filled with gratitude toward the young Indian; "good Blue Jacket! Will I ever forget this? May my right arm wither if I should! And now, I wonder where Bob is?"
They had gone some little distance from the village, so that there no longer seemed to be any danger that they would be seen if they walked erect. Sandy had impulsively thrown an arm about his companion, meaning to help him. Perhaps at another time the proud young Shawanee might have indignantly declined to accept any assistance; but he was weak, and he had learned to feel a singular affection for his two white brothers.
They came to a stop near a tangle of thickets.
"Listen!" said Blue Jacket.
Then close by, so that it actually startled the white boy, came the bark of the red fox, twice repeated. And he remembered what his guide had said about the signal which Bob was to recognize. Anxiously Sandy waited, every nerve on edge for fear lest his brother might have gone.
There was a stir in the thicket, and then came a low voice saying:
"Sandy! Blue Jacket, is it you?"
"Here!" exclaimed the escaped prisoner, unable to longer restrain his feelings; and in another moment he was clasped in a brother's sturdy embrace.
"No time lose," observed the practical Indian. "Come long me. River close by. Canoe p'raps wait. Paddle home. Tell white squaw Blue Jacket much glad."
In two minutes they had arrived at the border of the little stream, where Blue Jacket produced his canoe, hidden for this very purpose late that evening.
"Go quick! No time lose. Mebbe alarm come. Who can tell?" said the Indian.
Sandy had crept into the frail boat made of skins, and Bob was about to do so, after squeezing the hand of their red friend, when a smooth voice suddenly said:
"Sacre! it ees just as I thought when I saw him paddle his canoe here. Not so quick, young messieurs. You are not yet out of ze woods."
It was Jacques Larue!
The keen-eyed and suspicious French trader had by chance seen Blue Jacket slip away from his people and silently paddle his canoe down the river a short distance. He had followed, and watched him hide the bark here in the rushes bordering the shore.
And of course the trader had no difficulty in guessing what this meant. He knew Blue Jacket intended that the white prisoner should escape by this means.
Why Larue did not go at once to the head men, and tell of his discovery, will never be known. Perhaps he fancied that Sandy would come alone to the boat, and it struck him as a fine chance to frustrate the designs of the boy just when doubtless his heart would beat high with hope.
At any rate here he was, possibly somewhat surprised that three dark figures confronted him instead of one shrinking lad.
"What would you?" demanded Bob, turning quickly around, just as he was in the act of entering the canoe, which was floating among the rushes.
"So, you are zere, too, it seems?" sneered the man. "I remember zere was also ze second Armstrong cub. Zis is vat I call neat. Two new Shawanee boys, adopted into ze tribe! Perhaps ze new Eenglish trader like to exchange hees goods for sons! Sacre! suppose you come back to lodges wiz me. I haf got ze gun pointed straight; and my fingair, it press on ze trigger. You refuse, and pouf! bang, down you go!"
"What! do you mean that you would force us to go back to captivity; and you a white man at that? Shame on you, Jacques Larue! Better paint your face, and stick feathers in your hair; for you are more savage than the reddest Indian!" cried the reckless Sandy.
The trader gave vent to a low cry of anger. Bob feared that the Frenchman might be urged to shoot by these taunts, for he was undoubtedly hot-blooded, like most of his countrymen.
It was surely a time for action. The young pioneer made a sudden lunge forward and struck out with his right arm. Long handling of the axe had given Bob the muscles of an athlete; and when his clenched fist came in contact with the jaw of the French trader the result was disastrous to Larue.
He went floundering on his back. His gun was discharged; but the missile that it had contained did no more damage than to shoot a hole through the atmosphere, for it was aimed at the time at the sky.
"Away!" cried Blue Jacket, pushing Bob toward the boat; for the boy had acted as though tempted to follow up his one blow by giving the insulting trader the whipping he deserved.
Prudence prevailed, and Bob hastened to leap aboard. Then the young Shawanee gave the canoe a shove that sent it out through the rushes, and upon the bosom of the flowing stream.
Jacques Larue struggled to his feet, and wildly pranced up and down on the shore, shouting threats of what he would do if ever he came in contact with either of those Armstrong "cubs" again. But Bob gave little heed to what he said, being much more concerned with other matters.
Of course the report of the heavily-charged gun, together with the cries of the angry French trader, must by this time have aroused the village.
"I wonder if they will pursue us?" ventured Sandy, as he worked away valiantly at the paddle which he had taken up.
"The current of this stream is swift, and the shores so filled with underbrush that we can make faster time than any brave could afoot," remarked Bob, while he, too, bent to the task before him, so that the little boat fairly danced along on the starlit stream, heading down toward the junction with the big Ohio.
"But they have other canoes, for I saw three at least?" ventured Sandy.
"But Blue Jacket knew that," returned the other, shrewdly; "and depend on it he saw to it that they were hidden away where they could not be found in a hurry. We may be pursued, but I am not afraid."
They could hear some sort of hubbub taking place back toward the place where the village stood. No doubt the greatest confusion ensued when the absence of all the canoes was discovered.
"I only hope he will not be made to suffer for what he did," mused Sandy; "because Blue Jacket is our red brother now, and he thinks a heap of you, Bob."
"Yes, and of you, too, Sandy, because he said as much. How nice it has all turned out after all! And it pays, sometimes, brother, just as our mother says, to be kind toward an enemy. If we had let the poor fellow die, think what would be your condition to-night."
Sandy worked for a long time in silence; but he was undoubtedly thinking over the stirring events of the last few hours, and the lesson must have sunk deep into his heart, never to be forgotten.
"I believe we are close to the big river!" remarked Bob, after a time.
"Why, you took the very words out of my mouth," returned Sandy; "for I can see much water ahead, and the waves seem to be getting larger. We must keep to the right, and paddle close to the shore."
Presently they entered upon the vast expanse of the Ohio, and their progress became much slower, since now they were compelled to fight against a strong current, instead of having the benefit of one.
"Jacques Larue seems to be in mortal fear about father taking his trade away from him," said Sandy, after a time.
"That is because he has been robbing the Indians," observed the thoughtful Bob. "He knows that the English do not trade after that style, but believe in giving more for the pelts. And, brother, I believe that what has happened may assist father very much in his trade. You heard what the chief said—that never would the Shawanees war upon the family of Armstrong. That means they will be our friends, even though at war with the whites."
"The skies seem to be brightening all around," remarked Sandy. "If only the truth would come out about that barn burning! It is the one black blot on our name, and father feels it keenly, though he tries to be so brave. His honor is very dear to him."
"As it should be," cried Sandy. "But mother never loses hope. Does she not constantly say that in God's good time all must be made clear? And I believe that mother knows best. I keep hoping that some fine day we shall have news from our old home in Virginia, and that word will come to tell us father's name is cleared."
They said no more for some time. Indeed, all of their breath was needed in the violent exertion of forcing the canoe against that current, running six miles or more an hour.
"Oh! I believe we must be near home now!" cried Sandy suddenly, pointing with his extended paddle toward the nearby shore. "See, that bunch of trees on the hill-top looks like the one we can look at from our cabin. Yes, it must be, Bob! Shall we land here, and climb up?"
"Ten minutes more ought to do it, brother," said the other, quietly. "So dip deep, and push hard. It is nearly over; and think of the joy of being home again."
"Oh! yes. They must be dreadfully worried after knowing about that fire. How fortunate that it did not sweep this way," declared Sandy, between gasps; for he was very nearly done up, not having all the rugged physique of his brother.
"We have much to be thankful for," replied Bob, working away.
When the time set by Bob had expired the canoe was turned toward the shore, and the two landed, securing the frail craft, for they hoped to have many a trip in it on the broad bosom of the mighty Ohio.
After this they mounted the hill. Bob, knowing that there were always sentinels on duty, and not wishing to be fired on by mistake, gave a signal that would be recognized; and presently they were met by one whom they knew well, being ushered by the guard into the settlement.
There was a light burning in the Armstrong cabin, and they could easily understand that sleepless eyes reigned there. As they drew near, the door opened, and the two lads saw a well-known figure appear. It was the anxious mother who stood there, shading her eyes with her hand, for a fire burned near by. She had heard voices that thrilled her soul.
Impulsive Sandy gave a shout and rushed forward, to be crushed to that loving breast, and kissed again and again. Then came the wide-eyed Kate, and the delighted father, to renew the tender caresses.
Neighbors who had been aroused also flocked into the Armstrong cabin, eager to hear of the boys' adventures. So for an hour, or until nearly dawn, they had to relate the strange things that had befallen them since leaving home on that eventful hunt.
Looking around the big room, where the fire burned so cheerily, and the kettle sang its home-like tune, Sandy heaved a great sigh of happiness.
"It's just Heaven to be here!" he said; and, while his good mother shook her head in mild reproof at his words, she smiled with pleasure to realize that her boys thought so much of their home, humble though it might be, and devoid of many things others would deem necessities.
After a warm meal the boys were compelled to go to bed, and secure some rest, of which both of them were certainly in sore need. Later on that day, when the full particulars of the captivity were told, David turned to his wife and said:
"Yes, your way was the best way after all, Mary. See how blessed a return that poor wounded and almost dying Shawanee has made. With his life, if need be, he was determined to repay the debt. And to think that they call us friends, these red men with whom I expect to do much trading after a while! Son, that was surely the best day's work you ever did when you bound up the wounds of Blue Jacket, and took him in by our fireside. I will never forget the lesson, wife. Our bread cast upon the waters did return, and that before many days."
And the gentle Mary only said in reply:
"Still have faith that the other cloud will yet be lifted in good time, David!"