“The Indians are encamped in the valley beyond this hill!” cried Joe. “In that case we will soon find out whom they have as captives with them.”

With extreme caution the hunters and pioneers climbed the slope until about fifty feet from the ridge.

Then the men and boys were allowed to crawl among the trees and brushwood to the very top and look over into the valley below.

A plain of tall grass and low brush met their gaze, extending for quarter of a mile in width and several miles in length. In the very center was a small brook, moving peacefully along between the reeds and rushes.

The encampment of the red men was along the bank of the watercourse next to the hill occupied by the whites. Here several wigwams had been temporarily erected and here two camp-fires had just been started. On a slight rise of ground lay several bundles of goods which belonged to the ill-fated pioneers, and not far away several horses and mules were tethered.

But the gaze of those on the ridge of the hill was not directed to the Indians, the bundles, or the horses, but to the captives, who were in a group by themselves not far from one of the wigwams.

The captives were six in number—two women, two girls, and two men, one of the latter just grown to manhood. Each was bound, and it was plain to see that each had suffered much since being taken a prisoner.

“I see Cora!” exclaimed Joe in a low voice. “Do you see mother?”

“I do not,” answered Ezra Winship, and the tone of his voice showed keen disappointment.

“That other girl is Dorothy Reasoner, and the two women are Mrs. Landrop and Mrs. Gellott,” went on the boy.

“The men are old Hank Kassoway and young Paul Broker, the young fellow they said looked like you, Joe.”

“Do you suppose they have any other captives, father?”

“There may be some in one of the wigwams, but it is doubtful.”

Word was now passed along that the hunters must be silent, and for some minutes not a word was spoken.

During that interval several of the Indians were seen to run to the group of prisoners and bring forward the young fellow named Paul Broker.

In a twinkle the hunting shirt was ripped off the young pioneer and he was hurled flat on his back on the ground. While he was being held there by two red men others tied cords to his wrists and ankles and these were afterward secured to four short stakes driven securely in the soil.

“They are going to torture that young man!” exclaimed Mr. Winship in horror.

After the victim was so secured that he could scarcely move some of the Indians began to dance around him, uttering the words of a wild song and flourishing their tomahawks and scalping knives. Occasionally one would leap forward and make a move as if to cut off the nose or gouge out an eye of the victim.

They thought by this to make the young man cry out in fear and beg for mercy, but Paul Broker had learned the lesson that the Indian is merciless when it comes to torturing an enemy and so he remained mute.

The girl and women prisoners shrieked in horror at the scene and, unable to stand the sight, one woman fainted dead away.

Burning fagots were now brought forward and the Indians prepared to place them upon the naked breast of the victim. One fagot was held close to his face, so that his eyebrows were singed.

While this was going on, Boone crawled from one to another of his party and gave a few hurried directions.

It was now growing dark, and, keeping as much in the shadows of the hill as possible, the hunters moved over the ridge and down close to the Indian encampment.

The Indians around Paul Broker were just on the point of placing the fagots upon the victim’s breast when Daniel Boone gave the order to open fire.

Crack! crack! bang! went the rifles and shotguns, and at the first irregular volley three of the Indians were killed outright and five others badly wounded. In those days powder and ball were scarce, and no man discharged his weapon unless he was tolerably sure of his aim.

“Forward!” cried Daniel Boone, and led the way, reloading as he ran.

The red men had not yet thrown out their guards for the night and were taken completely by surprise. As the shots rang out and so many of their number fell, the others were almost panic-stricken.

“The palefaces! the palefaces!” they cried, and ran for their bows and arrows and other weapons.

Colonel Boone knew well how to fight Indians and had given instructions to make as much noise as possible. Consequently the hunters under him came onward with many loud yells and shrieks, uttered in all sorts of tones, giving the red men the impression that the attacking party numbered a hundred or more.

Guns and pistols were discharged and reloaded with all possible speed, and as the whites drew closer they brought forth their tomahawks and hunting knives. It was Boone himself who leaped to the rescue of Paul Broker, closely followed by Mr. Winship and others. Joe ran straight to his sister Cora.

Realizing that the battle was against them the Indians made but a feeble resistance, and then those who were able did what they could to escape across the valley to the hills.

As one tall red man dashed past the captives he aimed a blow with his tomahawk at Cora. But before the hatchet could reach the girl’s head Joe swung around the butt of his gun and struck the Indian’s arm a crushing blow, breaking that member and causing the tomahawk to fall to the ground.

“Joe! Joe!” burst from Cora Winship’s lips. She could not say more.

Some of the Indians attempted to reach the horses, but were blocked and two others were shot down. Then the rest ran in all directions, their only idea being to hide themselves under cover of the coming night.

But the pioneers were thoroughly aroused to the situation, and, under the leadership of Daniel Boone, those left of the evil band were hunted not only during the night, but all of the next day. In this hunt Joe took no part, preferring to do the duty assigned to him and four others, namely, that of looking after the women and girls and the horses and goods in the camp. But Ezra Winship went with Boone and his men, and this following of the red men’s trail resulted in the downfall of two more Indians and the taking prisoner of the chief, Red Feather, who had been wounded at the very start of the fight.

In the battle four of the whites had been wounded and one man—a very old frontiersman named Hollenbeck—was killed. The wounds of those hurt were not serious and were dressed with care by the women and girls who had been rescued.

It was a long story that Cora Winship had to tell concerning her captivity, but it need not be repeated here, for it is very similar to hundreds of such stories which have already been told. The Indians had treated her with alternate kindness and harshness, and she had been given to understand that she was to be taken to some Indian village far to the northward, along one of the lakes.

“I do not know what has become of mother or of Harmony,” she said.

“Harmony is safe at the fort,” answered Joe. “Do you know what has become of Clara Parsons?”

“I do not, Joe. We were together at first, but the Indians soon separated us, just as they separated Harmony from the others. So Harmony is safe? Well, I am glad to learn that. But poor dear mother!” And the girl shook her head sorrowfully.

When Mr. Winship came back from the hunt after the fleeing Indians Cora sprang into his arms with a joyful cry. It was a happy moment for all despite the fact that the mother and wife was still missing.

The Indian chief, Red Feather, refused to talk when brought in, nor would any threats induce him to open his mouth.

“The palefaces may do as pleases them,” were his words. “Red Feather, the mighty chief of the Cherokees, has nothing to say to them.”

But one of the other Indians was not so close-mouthed, and from this warrior it was learned that the reason Paul Broker had been tortured was because he had attacked and attempted to kill Long Knife, Red Feather’s brother chief.

“Long Knife was in a canoe with a white maiden when the paleface shot him with an arrow,” said the Indian to Daniel Boone, in his native language.

The old pioneer had heard Joe’s story, and he quickly turned to the youth and told him what the Indian said.

“That was not Paul Broker, but myself,” said Joe.

“Ha! now we have the truth of it!” cried Paul Broker, who was standing near. “I told the redskins that I had done nothing of the kind, but they would not believe me. In the darkness Long Knife probably mistook Joe for myself.”

As the youth and the young man looked so much alike, this was accepted as the true explanation of the affair.

“It is lucky we came along as we did,” said Joe to Paul Broker. “If we hadn’t you would have suffered horribly on my account.”

None of the Indians could tell what had become of Long Knife further than that he had appeared at the camp badly wounded and that he had been taken away by two warriors acting under Red Feather’s orders.

“Red Feather and Long Knife are related,” said Daniel Boone. “If either suffers the other will do what he can to right the injury. Now that Long Knife has escaped he will probably keep shady until he is well again, and then he will do what he can to cause us more trouble. But I have a card I shall play against him.”

“You mean Red Feather?” said Ezra Winship.

“Yes. I shall keep him a captive and notify the Indians for miles around the fort that if an attack is made Red Feather shall suffer most horribly for it, but if they keep the peace Red Feather shall be released at the end of six months and be given half a dozen best blankets and a fine horse.”

“But what will you do about my wife and the others who are still missing?” asked Mr. Winship anxiously.

At this Daniel Boone shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

“I hate to say it, friend Winship, but—but——”

“But what?”

“I am sorely afraid that all of the others who were taken captives are dead,” answered Daniel Boone.

“Do you really mean that?” cried Joe, with a sinking heart.

“I do. I have tried my best to find some trace of them, but there is none, and when a redskin refuses to speak on that subject after talking about all others it is pretty safe to say that the truth is too awful to mention.”