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