The Pioneer Boys of the Ohio; or, Clearing the Wilderness

by St. George Rathborne

  CHAPTER XIX

  CAPTURED BY THE SHAWANEES

  "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 hisbreath, and wondering if it would reach into the aperture and seizehold of his garments.

  And now it was gone. He could hardly believe the truth, and that he hadreally escaped without any injury. Down the wind he could see the angryglow that marked the fire line. Here and there little blazes stillremained, where a winrow of the dead leaves had offered fat pickingsfor the flames. And smoke curled up everywhere, sickening smoke thatmade the eyes smart.

  "But what of Bob?"

  That was the chief thought that surged through the mind of the boy ashe 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 inthe 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. Theearth was still hot after its recent burning; but, by picking hisway, Sandy believed that he might find it possible to walk on in thedirection the fire had swept along.

  He called to Bob as he moved. Once his heart seemed to leap into hismouth, for he thought he saw something move ahead; but, though heturned a little aside so as to advance that way, he failed to see itagain.

  Then he stopped to consider. Was it wise for him to wander off inthis manner, without a definite plan? Had not Bob told him to staywhere he was until he came? He might get lost, and only add to theirtroubles. Yes, perhaps he had better restrain his impatience, and waita reasonable time to see whether Bob would not show himself.

  It was while he stood thus, close to an unusually large tree, thatsomething came to pass, possibly the very last thing in all the worldSandy 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 horrorthat he was looking into the painted face of an Indian warrior.

  "A PAIR OF MUSCULAR BRONZED ARMS SUDDENLY CLOSED ABOUTTHE BOY."]

  Then he heard the brave give vent to a screech, which must have beensome sort of signal, for immediately three other feathered heads poppedinto view, one of them from behind the very tree where Sandy hadbelieved he saw something move.

  In vain the boy struggled with all his might; his strength was notequal to that of the man who held him, and, when the four ugly lookingred 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 tosummon all his resolution. And, indeed, if ever the boy needed hiscourage it was at that moment, when he realized that he was alone andpowerless in the hands of the hostile Shawanees.

  Would they proceed to kill him then and there? He had heard terriblestories about the cruelty of these copper-colored sons of thewilderness.

  Now they were jabbering away in an unknown tongue. Occasionally theywould point at him, as though he must be the subject of their talk, ashe had no doubt was the case.

  "Oh! I wonder if they really mean to do it," was what Sandy was sayingto himself, as he listened to the vigorous language, which to him wasutterly without sense, although he felt sure that Colonel Boone couldhave understood every word of it.

  Then he saw one fellow, who seemed to scowl, fingering his tomahawk ina suggestive manner that made Sandy's very blood run cold.

  Thinking he saw a chance to bolt, the boy suddenly sprinted off. Butere he had gone twenty feet his arm was clutched in a dusky hand, andhis flight brought to a halt.

  At least one of his captors could speak some English, and he shook hisknife in Sandy's face:

  "No run--paleface boy try more, we kill!"

  Sandy managed to pluck up a little fresh hope. From what the paintedbrave said, if he tried again to escape they would do somethingdesperate. Did that mean they would let him live if he gave in, andallowed himself to be made a prisoner?

  The man who gripped him held his hands behind, while another securedhis wrists together with buckskin thongs. That looked as though theymeant to take him along with them, perhaps to their village.

  And so presently Sandy found himself marching along over the blackenedground, hedged in by a quartette of vicious looking Indians.

  They paid little attention to him, though if at any time he seemed toslacken his pace, which was a jog-trot, such as Indians can keep upall day, he received, as a gentle reminder that he was to put on freshspeed, a dig in the ribs from one of those in the rear.

  Sandy never forgot that little excursion. While he may not have covereda great many miles, his spirits were so low that it seemed the mostmiserable period of his whole life.

  What had happened to Bob? That was the burden of his thoughts. He evenfound himself wondering whether his brother could have fallen in withthese red men, and met with disaster. Then he noticed that one of thefour carried a gun, and that it was such a weapon as the French tradersused in dealing with the Indians, and not a staunch musket like theEnglish 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 newshome?

  By degrees they had edged away from the burned tract. The wind had diedout, and finally, after crossing a line of flickering flames that wasmaking but poor progress, Sandy discovered that they no longer walkedthrough blackened stuff, but upon leaves that had not felt the touch offire.

  "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 hadhappened.

  He heard his captors exchanging remarks again, and from their mannerguessed that the end of their pilgrimage must be close at hand.

  "Perhaps it is a village they are taking me to," he said, rememberingwhat he had heard from Blue Jacket.

  Surely that was a dog barking somewhere ahead. Did the Indians havedogs? Yes, he remembered that this was so. Blue Jacket had told him howthey had been bred from wolves, that long ago had been taken captive,so that they still possessed many of the savage traits that had markedtheir ancestors.

  And then as they pushed out of the forest he suddenly set eyes on theShawanee village. It stood on the bank of a small stream, no doubt atributary to the great Ohio. There were scores of skin lodges, each onegaudily painted with rude scenes representing some stirring incidentsin 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, fornever 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 thata prisoner had been brought in was circulated among the dusky occupantsof the lodges, the utmost confusion abounded.

  Braves came thronging out to meet the returning warriors, squawschattering, papooses squalling, and even half-naked youngsters addingto the clamor.

  Poor Sandy was pinched and poked and pushed about at the hands of thethrong until he really feared for his life. Angry looks were cast uponhim. Apparently there had been braves who had gone forth from thisvillage upon the warpath to return no more. They seemed to want to venttheir anger upon the head of the white boy who had fallen into theirhands.

  Sandy was glad when they thrust him inside a lodge. So roughly was thisdone that the boy, rendered partly helpless by his bonds, reeled andfell on his face on the ground. Fortunately, however, the earth provedyielding, so that he was not seriously injured.

  Struggling to a sitting position, he tried to bolster up his courageby remembering all that he had ever heard about Indian villages fromPat O'Mara, and also from Daniel Boone himself, during that day's trampthrough the forest.

  "And they said that these redskins like to burn their prisoners at thestake," Sand
y whispered to himself, as he shook his head dolefully."Oh! I hope they will never try that! I'm sure that was roast enoughfor 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, andjabbered so. And Colonel Boone told me how he was adopted into anIndian tribe, not long ago. She is a horrible looking old squaw; butbetter be made her son than--the other thing!"

  The day slowly died, and Sandy looked to the coming of night with newterror. He could not exactly remember whether it was in the evening orthe morning that the Indians always burned their prisoners.

  "It would make some difference if I only knew," he said, with hopestill fluttering in his boyish heart.

  He had some difficulty in creeping to the entrance of the lodge, butwas 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 carefullylooking as well as the circumstances allowed.

  Fires had been lighted, and the squaws seemed to be getting a mealready, though, from what he had heard, Sandy understood that the redmen have really no set time for eating, like their paleface brothers;simply waiting until they are hungry, and then satisfying the demandsof nature with food.

  It was a scene of bustle, with many dusky figures flitting about thefires.

  "I wonder if I could manage to get away from here, in case I got myhands free?" Sandy was saying; but almost immediately he discoveredthat close by was a squatting figure, evidently a guard, for he helda gun in his hands and seemed to be intently watching the head of theprisoner.

  So Sandy with a sigh drew back and waited for something to turn up. Hewas a most disconsolate figure as he crouched there, anticipating theworst; yet, while thinking of home and mother, trying to hope for thebest.

  Then suddenly he started. Surely that was not the voice of an Indian heheard! Again he scrambled to the opening and thrust out his head.

  A neighboring fire lighted up the scene. It was of unusual size, andthe boy immediately conceived the idea that the Indians meant tohold some sort of council, perhaps to decide his fate, for many weregathering around, with braves in the middle, and the squaws and boys onthe outer fringe.

  And standing close by, in earnest conversation with one who seemed tobe 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 awhite man among all these dusky sons of the wilderness seemed to givehim fresh courage.

  Then a spasm of chagrin passed over him, for he had remembered thestories told by Daniel Boone of those renegades, such as Simon Girty,who had turned their hand against their kind, and fought side by sidewith the savages, more cruel even than the Indians they had taken to betheir brothers.

  "But no, he must be a French trader," he said immediately, as helistened to the voice of the man in buckskin; "like that Jacques Laruewe met when we stopped at Will's Creek on the way from Virginia. It isthe same! Yes, now I can see his face plainly. Oh! I wonder if he wouldhelp me get away!"

  Filled with this newly-awakened hope the boy prisoner lifted his voiceand called out:

  "Monsieur Larue! oh! come this way, if you please!"