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