The Forest Runners A Story of the Great War Trail in Early Kentucky

CHAPTER XIII

BRAX­TON WY­ATT'S OR­DEAL

The blood of Big Fox leaped for a mo­ment in his veins, but it did not show un­der the paint of his face. His fig­ure nev­er quiv­ered. He still knew all the dan­ger, and he knew, more­over, how it had in­creased since the en­trance of Brax­ton Wy­att, but he said, in slow, cold tones, full of dead­ly mean­ing:

“It is the white youth who left his own peo­ple to come to our vil­lage and join our peo­ple. We have re­ceived him, but the eyes of the war­riors are still up­on him.”

The in­sin­ua­tion was ev­ident. The rene­gade could not be trust­ed. Al­ready, with the first words spo­ken, Big Fox was im­peach­ing his char­ac­ter.

Brax­ton Wy­att stood with his back to the buf­fa­lo robe, which had fall­en again over the en­trance, and looked around at the cir­cle of chiefs who had re­sumed their seats on the skin mats. Then his eyes met the stern, ac­cus­ing gaze of Big Fox, the Shawnee belt bear­er, and were held there as if fas­ci­nat­ed. But Brax­ton Wy­att was not with­out courage. He wrenched his eyes away, turned them up­on the an­cient chief, Gray Beaver, and said:

“I have been long in the Shawnee lodges, great chief of the Mi­amis, but I do not know these belt bear­ers.”

There was a mur­mur, and a stir on the skin mats.

Big Fox scorned to look again at Brax­ton Wy­att. He gazed steadi­ly at the coun­cil fire, and said in tones of in­dif­fer­ence:

“The white youth who left his own peo­ple has been in the lodges, where the old men and wom­en stay; we have been on the war trail with the war­riors. The day we re­turned to the vil­lage we were cho­sen to bring the peace belts to our good friends, the Mi­amis.”

“The belt bear­ers are Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat,” said Yel­low Pan­ther, look­ing at Brax­ton Wy­att. “You have heard of them? The Shawnee vil­lages are full of their fame.”

“I nev­er saw them, and I nev­er heard of them be­fore,” replied Brax­ton Wy­att, in a tone of min­gled anger and be­wil­der­ment, “but I do know that all the Shawnees wish the Mi­amis to go south with them at once, on the great war trail against the white set­tle­ments.”

The old chief, Gray Beaver, looked from the belt bear­ers to Brax­ton Wy­att and from Brax­ton Wy­att to the belt bear­ers. His aged brain was be­wil­dered by the con­flict­ing tales, but he put lit­tle trust in the white youth. Al­ready Big Fox had sowed in his mind the seeds of un­be­lief in the words of Brax­ton Wy­att.

“Scarce­ly a moon ago the Shawnees, as we all know, wished to go on the great war trail at once,” said Yel­low Pan­ther, “but now three come, who say they are from them, bear­ing peace belts. More­over, here is an­oth­er who says that the Shawnees would send war belts. What shall the Mi­amis think?”

There was an­oth­er mur­mur, and then si­lence. The sur­charged air was heavy in the great lodge. But Big Fox mere­ly shrugged his shoul­ders slight­ly, and an­swered in tones of lofty in­dif­fer­ence:

“Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat were sent by the old chiefs of the Shawnees to de­liv­er peace belts to the chiefs of the Mi­amis, and they have de­liv­ered them.”

Brown Bear and The Bat nod­ded, but said noth­ing. Yel­low Pan­ther looked at Brax­ton Wy­att, who was shak­en by vary­ing emo­tions. As he tru­ly said, he had long been in the Shawnee vil­lages, but he had nev­er seen or heard of the three war­riors who now sat calm­ly be­fore him--Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat. Yet he could not say that no such men ex­ist­ed, be­cause small par­ties had roved far and long on the hunt or the war trail. He gazed at them be­fore an­swer­ing. He, too, was struck by the splen­did fig­ure and pose of Big Fox, and he was im­pressed, more­over, by a sense of some­thing fa­mil­iar, though he could not name it. It haunt­ed him and trou­bled him, but re­mained a mys­tery. He col­lect­ed his shrewd wits and said:

“As I told you, the war­riors who bring the peace belts are strangers to me. Yet the Shawnees, when I left the head vil­lage, but a few days ago, wished war at once against the white set­tle­ments, and the Shawnees do not change their minds quick­ly.”

“Is the word of a rene­gade, of one who would slay his own peo­ple, to be weighed against that of a war­rior?”

Big Fox spoke with lofty con­tempt, not gaz­ing at Brax­ton Wy­att, but straight in­to the eyes of Gray Beaver. The old chief felt the pow­er of that look, and wa­vered un­der it.

“It is true,” he said, “that the Shawnees, a moon ago, were for war; but Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat have come, bear­ing peace belts from them, and what our eyes see must be true.”

There was a mur­mur again, but it was very faint now. The au­thor­ity of Gray Beaver, in his time a mighty war­rior, and now wise with years and ex­pe­ri­ence, was great, and the un­der chiefs were im­pressed--all but Yel­low Pan­ther, whose eyes flashed vin­dic­tive­ly at the belt bear­ers. An­gry blood al­so flushed Brax­ton Wy­att's face, and he did not know at the mo­ment what to say or do.

“It is true that I was born white,” he said, “but I have be­come one of the Shawnees, and I shall be faith­ful to them. I have spo­ken no lies. The Shawnees were for war, and I be­lieve they are so yet.”

“The Shawnees from whom I have come,” said Big Fox, in his grave tones, whol­ly ig­nor­ing Brax­ton Wy­att, “ex­pect peace belts in re­turn. Will the mes­sen­gers de­part with them to-​mor­row?”

He spoke di­rect­ly to Gray Beaver, and his pow­er­ful gaze still rest­ed up­on him. The with­ered frame of the old chief trem­bled a lit­tle with­in his furred robe, and then he yield­ed to the spell.

“The Mi­ami mes­sen­gers will start to-​mor­row with peace belts for the Shawnees,” he said.

A thrill of tri­umph ran through the frame of Big Fox, but he said noth­ing. The eyes of both Brax­ton Wy­att and Yel­low Pan­ther flashed vin­dic­tive­ly, but they, too, said noth­ing. Big Fox judged that they were not yet whol­ly beat­en, but he had ac­com­plished much; if each tribe re­ceived peace belts from the oth­ers, it would take a long time to un­tan­gle the snarl, and unite them for war. Mean­while, the white set­tle­ments were steadi­ly grow­ing stronger.

“Our Shawnee brethren, the belt bear­ers, will stay with us a while,” said the crafty Yel­low Pan­ther. “They have trav­eled far, and they need rest.”

Big Fox knew that it would not do to be too hasty; a de­sire to de­part at once would on­ly arouse sus­pi­cion, and he and his com­rades, more­over, had fur­ther work to do in the Mi­ami vil­lage. So he grave­ly ac­cept­ed the of­fer of hos­pi­tal­ity, and he and Brown Bear and The Bat were con­duct­ed to a lodge in the cen­ter of the vil­lage, where they ate again, and re­clined lux­uri­ous­ly up­on buf­fa­lo robes and deer­skins. Yel­low Pan­ther fol­lowed them there, and was very so­lic­itous for their com­fort. All his at­ten­tions they re­ceived with grave cour­tesy, and when there was noth­ing more that he could do or say he with­drew, let­ting the cov­er­ing of the lodge door fall be­hind him. Then the three belt bear­ers, putting their ears against the skin walls of the lodge, lis­tened in­tent­ly. Noth­ing was stir­ring with­out. If any per­son was at hand, or lis­tened there, they would have known it; so they spoke to each oth­er in low tones.

“Your plan seems to have worked so far, Hen­ry,” said Ross, “even if Brax­ton Wy­att did come.”

“Yes--so far,” replied Hen­ry Ware; “but Brax­ton is sure that some­thing is wrong, and so is that cun­ning wolf, Yel­low Pan­ther. They want to hold us here in the vil­lage un­til they find out the truth; but we are will­ing to stay, that we may check­mate what they do. I can work on old Gray Beaver, whose age makes him fa­vor cau­tion and peace.”

“An' while you are thinkin' it over,” said Shif'less Sol, “jest re­mem­ber that I'm a belt bear­er who has trav­eled a long way, an' that I'm pow'ful tired; so I guess I'll take a nap.”

He rolled over on the soft­est of the skins, and was as good as his word. In five min­utes he was sound asleep. Tom Ross leaned back against the skin wall and med­itat­ed. Hen­ry Ware arose and walked in the vil­lage; but the mo­ment he stepped from the lodge, all trace of the white youth was gone, and he was again Big Fox, the chief of the belt bear­ers from the Shawnees.

The vil­lage was the scene of an ac­tive sav­age life. It had been a sea­son of plen­ty. Game and fish abound­ed, and, ac­cord­ing to the In­di­an na­ture, they ate and over­ate of that plen­ty, think­ing lit­tle of the mor­row. Hence this life, be­sides be­ing ac­tive, was al­so hap­py in its wild way. Big Fox no­ticed the fact, with those keen eyes of his that noth­ing es­caped.

And all in their turn no­ticed Big Fox here, as he had been no­ticed in the Coun­cil House. Old and young alike ad­mired him. They thought that no such splen­did war­rior had ev­er be­fore en­tered their vil­lage. Sure­ly the Shawnees were a na­tion of men when they could pro­duce such as he. His height, his straight, com­mand­ing glance, the won­der­ful, care­less strength and majesty of his fig­ure, all im­pressed them. He looked to them like one with­out fear, and more­over, with such strength and quick­ness as his, he seemed one who had lit­tle to fear. But as he walked there, Yel­low Pan­ther came again, and spoke to him with sly, in­sin­uat­ing man­ner:

“The belt bear­er is not weary, though he has trav­eled far.”

“No,” replied Big Fox. “Man­itou has been kind to me, and has giv­en me strong limbs and mus­cles that do not tire.”

“Did Big Fox, in his jour­ney from the Shawnee vil­lage, hear of white men? It is said that a band of them have been in this re­gion about the lake, there to the south­ward. One of our war­riors was slain, but we could not find those whom we pur­sued.”

Big Fox won­dered if it was a chance shot, but he looked straight in­to the eyes of Yel­low Pan­ther, which fell be­fore the gaze of his, and replied:

“I came bear­ing belts, and I thought on­ly of them. If there are white men in the Mi­ami woods, the Mi­amis are war­riors enough to take them.”

Yel­low Pan­ther turned aside, but he fol­lowed the tall fig­ure with a look of the most vin­dic­tive hate. Like Brax­ton Wy­att, he felt that some­thing was wrong, but what it was he did not yet know. Big Fox min­gled freely in the vil­lage life through­out the day, and nev­er once did he make a mis­take. All the In­di­an ways were fa­mil­iar to him, and when he talked with the war­riors about the North­west­ern tribes, he showed full knowl­edge. Old Gray Beaver was de­light­ed with him. The def­er­ence of this splen­did young war­rior was grate­ful to his heart.

That night the three belt bear­ers, calm and un­con­cerned, lay down in the great lodge that had been as­signed to them, and slept peace­ful­ly. Far in the dark­ness, Yel­low Pan­ther and Brax­ton Wy­att crept to the side of the lodge and lis­tened. They heard noth­ing from with­in, and at last the Mi­ami care­ful­ly lift­ed the buf­fa­lo hide over the en­trance. His sharp eyes, peer­ing in­to the shad­ows, saw the three belt bear­ers ly­ing up­on their backs and sleep­ing sound­ly. Ap­par­ent­ly they were men with­out fear, men with­out the cause of fear, and Yel­low Pan­ther, let­ting the tent flap fall soft­ly back, walked away with Brax­ton Wy­att, both deeply dis­ap­point­ed.

They did not know that a pair of hands had lift­ed the tent flap ev­er so lit­tle, and that a pair of keen eyes were fol­low­ing them. The won­der­ful in­stinct of Hen­ry Ware had warned him, and he had awak­ened the mo­ment they looked in. But his eyes had not opened. He had mere­ly felt their pres­ence with the swish of cold air on his face, and now, af­ter they had dis­ap­peared among the lodges, he wished to deep­en the im­pres­sion the belt bear­ers had made. Then he and his com­rades must go back to Paul and Jim Hart, who lay out there in the for­est, pa­tient­ly wait­ing.

The next morn­ing Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat saw three Mi­ami belt bear­ers de­part with peace belts for the Shawnee vil­lage, but as for them­selves, they would re­main a while longer, en­joy­ing the Mi­ami hos­pi­tal­ity.

In an open space just north of the vil­lage, Mi­ami boys were prac­tic­ing with the bow and ar­row, shoot­ing at the bod­ies of some owls tied on the low boughs of trees. War­riors were look­ing on, and the belt bear­ers, Big Fox, Brown Bear, and The Bat, joined them. By and by some of the war­riors be­gan to take a share in the sport and prac­tice, us­ing great war bows and send­ing the ar­rows whistling to the mark. At last the chief, Yel­low Pan­ther, him­self han­dled a bow and sur­passed all who had pre­ced­ed him in skill. Then, turn­ing with a ma­li­cious eye to Big Fox, he said:

“Per­haps the Shawnee belt bear­ers would like to show how well they can use the bow. Sure­ly they are not less in skill than the Mi­amis?”

His look was full of ven­om. Shawnees, though armed now with ri­fles, were good bow­men, and what­ev­er he sus­pect­ed might be con­firmed by the fail­ure of the belt bear­ers to show skill, or not to shoot at all. He held in his hand the great bow that he had used, and, bar­ring the mal­ice of his eyes, his ges­ture was full of po­lite­ness.

Big Fox did not hes­itate a mo­ment. He stepped for­ward, took the bow and ar­row from the hand of Yel­low Pan­ther, glanced at the great owl at which the chief had shot, and then walked back fif­teen yards far­ther from it. A mur­mur of ap­plause came from the crowd. He would shoot at a much greater dis­tance than Yel­low Pan­ther had shot, and the chief and Brax­ton Wy­att, too, who had drawn near, frowned.

Big Fox glanced once more at the body of the great owl, and then, fit­ting the ar­row to the string, he bent the bow. An in­vol­un­tary cry of ad­mi­ra­tion came from a peo­ple who val­ued phys­ical strength and skill when they saw the ease and grace with which he bent the tough wood. Not in vain had na­ture giv­en Big Fox a fig­ure of pow­er and mus­cles of steel! Not in vain had na­ture giv­en him an eye the like of which was not to be found on all the bor­der! Not in vain had he achieved sur­pass­ing skill with the bow in his life among the North­west­ern In­di­ans!

There was si­lence as the bow bent and the ar­row was drawn back to the head. Then that si­lence was bro­ken on­ly by the whizz of the feath­ered shaft as it shot through the air. But a uni­ver­sal shout arose as the ar­row struck fair­ly in the cen­ter of the owl, pierced it like a bul­let, and flew far be­yond.

Big Fox turned and hand­ed back the bow to Yel­low Pan­ther.

“Is it enough?” he asked grave­ly. “Can the Shawnee belt bear­ers use the bow and ar­row?”

“It is enough,” replied the chief, seek­ing in vain to hide his cha­grin.

“It wuz great luck,” whis­pered The Bat to Brown Bear, a lit­tle lat­er, “that the chal­lenge to the bow an' ar­row should a-​been made to per­haps the on­ly white in all the West who could a-​done sech a thing.”

The belt bear­ers spent a sec­ond night in the same lodge, and on the morn­ing of the third day they an­nounced that they must de­part for their own vil­lage. Gray Beaver hos­pitably, and Yel­low Pan­ther crafti­ly, urged them to stay longer, but Big Fox replied that the Shawnees were go­ing on a great hunt in­to the North­west be­fore the win­ter came, and the belt bear­ers would be need­ed. Brax­ton Wy­att knew noth­ing of the pro­ject­ed hunt, but for the present he was silent. Through­out the con­test he had shown at a dis­ad­van­tage against the diplo­ma­cy of Big Fox. Now the belt bear­ers cour­te­ous­ly in­vit­ed him to re­turn home with them, but he de­clined, re­ply­ing that he would not de­part for some days. He did not say it aloud, but noth­ing could have in­duced him to go with the belt bear­ers.

Big Fox no­ticed that nei­ther Yel­low Pan­ther nor Brax­ton Wy­att made any op­po­si­tion to their go­ing, and it was a fact that he did not for­get, draw­ing from it his own in­fer­ence. His pow­er to read the faces of men was scarce­ly in­fe­ri­or to his won­der­ful skill in read­ing ev­ery sign of the for­est.

Gray Beaver, and be­hind him a rab­ble, ac­com­pa­nied the Shawnee belt bear­ers to the edge of the woods, and there the aged chief said gra­cious­ly to Big Fox:

“My son, my heart is warm to­ward you, and I am glad to have seen you in the lodges of the Mi­amis.”

“Farewell, Gray Beaver,” said Big Fox.

Then he and his two com­rades turned, and dis­ap­peared like phan­toms in the for­est, so swift­ly they went.

Au­tumn had made fur­ther ad­vance. The dy­ing leaves were falling fast, and the wilder­ness was more open. A crisp wind blew in the faces of the three belt bear­ers--now belt bear­ers no longer, but Hen­ry Ware, Tom Ross, and Solomon Hyde, white of skin and white of heart. They sped for­ward on fleet foot many miles, and it was Shif'less Sol who spoke first.

“Shall we stop at this spring,” he said, “an' wash the paint off our faces? I want to look like a white man agin, jest ez I am. I don't feel nat'ral at all ez an In­jun.”

“Nei­ther do I,” said Tom Ross, “I don't like to change faces, an' right here I wash mine.”

The three stooped down to the spring, and as they rubbed off the paint they felt their right na­tures re­turn­ing.

“I'm thank­ful I wuz born white,” said Shif'less Sol. “Why, what is it, Hen­ry?”

Hen­ry Ware had raised his head in the at­ti­tude of one who lis­tens. His eyes were in­tent and nos­trils dis­tend­ed like those of a deer that sus­pects an en­emy.

“We're fol­lowed,” he said. “I thought we would be.”

“Yel­low Pan­ther, uv course!” said Tom Ross, with em­pha­sis.

“Of course! And like as not Brax­ton Wy­att is among those who are with him.”

Sol Hyde looked at Hen­ry. There was a queer light in the eyes of the shift­less one.

“Do we want 'em to ketch us?” he asked.

“I think we'd bet­ter wait and see.”

It was in no tone of boast­ing that ei­ther spoke. Three bor­der­ers such as they could shake off the pur­suit of any men who lived.

“S'pose we lead 'em on a while,” said Tom Ross.

Hen­ry nod­ded, and the three ran in a sort of easy trot to­ward the south­east. They took no trou­ble to hide their trail, and as the for­est at this point was free from un­der­growth, they were vis­ible at a con­sid­er­able dis­tance. This easy trot they kept up for hours, and the ex­traor­di­nary pow­ers, or in­tu­ition, of Hen­ry Ware told him that the Mi­amis were al­ways there, a quar­ter of a mile, per­haps, be­hind. But the three men were nev­er trou­bled. There was no fear in their minds. This was on­ly sport to them.

They crossed brooks and lit­tle creeks, and at last, when they came to one of the lat­ter a lit­tle larg­er than the oth­ers, Hen­ry Ware said:

“I think it's time to both­er 'em now. We'll wade here.”

They en­tered the creek, which had a hard, peb­bly bed, and walked rapid­ly against the stream for at least a quar­ter of a mile. Then they emerged in dense un­der­growth, and turned back­ward in a course par­al­lel to that by which they had come. But be­fore go­ing far they sank down in a dense thick­et, and lay quite still. Then they saw the Mi­ami band pass--fif­teen or six­teen war­riors, led by Yel­low Pan­ther, with Brax­ton Wy­att trail­ing at the rear. “The rene­gade!” said Shif'less Sol sav­age­ly, un­der his breath.

The band passed on, but the three bor­der­ers did not stir. They knew that the trail would be lost present­ly, and some, at least, of the war­riors would come back seek­ing it.

Fif­teen min­utes, a half hour, passed, and then they heard dis­tant foot­steps. Hen­ry Ware, peer­ing above the bush­es, saw a face that be­longed to a white youth, and sud­den­ly a dar­ing project formed it­self in his mind. Brax­ton Wy­att was alone! Oth­er mem­bers of the Mi­ami band must be near, but they were not in sight, and, above all, Brax­ton Wy­att was for the present alone! On­ly a few min­utes were need­ed!

“Watch what I do!” whis­pered Hen­ry Ware to his com­rades--he knew that their keen minds would need no oth­er hint.

Brax­ton Wy­att came back, look­ing on the ground, his ri­fle ly­ing loose­ly across his shoul­der. He dreamed of no dan­ger. The three sus­pect­ed belt bear­ers must be flee­ing fast. More­over, Yel­low Pan­ther and his Mi­ami friends were near. He walked on, and the fiend he served gave him no warn­ing.

He came to a dense clump of bush­es, and turned to go around it. There was a sud­den rustling in those bush­es, and he looked up. A ter­ri­fy­ing form threw it­self up­on him and bore him to the ground. A heavy hand was clapped up­on his mouth, and the cry that had risen to his lips died in his throat. He looked up and saw the face of Hen­ry Ware. Be­side him stood two oth­ers whom he knew--Tom Ross and Shif'less Sol. He be­came blue about the lips, and ex­pect­ed a quick death.

“Lis­ten!” said Hen­ry Ware, and ev­ery word that he said was burned in­to Brax­ton Wy­att's wretched soul. “You are not to die, not at this time. But you are to do what we say. Go back there, un­der those trees by the big rock, and when Yel­low Pan­ther and the oth­er Mi­amis come up, tell them that you have lied! We were the belt bear­ers, and you are to say to Yel­low Pan­ther that you knew us as re­al Shawnees, but you were so anx­ious for the war that you de­nied us. Tell it as if it were true. Don't trem­ble! Don't look once at these bush­es! Our three ri­fles will be aimed at you all the time, and if you say a sin­gle word that will make them sus­pect, we fire, and you know that no one of us ev­er miss­es. Do as we say!”

He was re­leased, the heavy hand was tak­en away from his mouth, and his cap­tors dis­ap­peared so sud­den­ly and silent­ly in the bush­es that it was al­most un­be­liev­able. Then Brax­ton Wy­att rose to his feet and trem­bled vi­olent­ly. Though he could not see them now, he must be­lieve. He could feel that pow­er­ful grasp yet up­on his arms, and that heavy hand yet up­on his mouth. He knew, too, as well as he knew that he was liv­ing, that the un­seen muz­zles were there, trained up­on him. As Hen­ry Ware tru­ly said, no one of the three ev­er missed, and he had no chance.

He stopped his trem­bling with an ef­fort of the will and walked to the rock un­der the trees, thir­ty or forty yards away. Al­ready he saw Yel­low Pan­ther and the oth­er Mi­amis com­ing, and he re­belled at the dead­ly men­ace from the bush­es. But the love of life was strong with­in him. He looked at Yel­low Pan­ther, who was ap­proach­ing with five or six war­riors, and then he tried to form a rapid plan. He would talk with the chief, say­ing at first what his ter­ri­ble en­emies wished, and then, grad­ual­ly draw­ing him away, he would tell the truth, and thus achieve the de­struc­tion of the three whom he hat­ed and feared so hor­ri­bly.

Brax­ton Wy­att raised one hand and wiped the per­spi­ra­tion from his face. Then, when a dead­ly fear struck him, he com­posed his fea­tures. Hen­ry Ware had said he must tell a tale that seemed true. There must be no sus­pi­cion. The fa­tal muz­zles were trained on him, he well knew, and the sharpest of eyes and ears were watch­ing. He longed to cast one look at the bush­es, on­ly one, but he dared not for his life. It was for­bid­den!

Yel­low Pan­ther was at hand now, plain­ly show­ing an­noy­ance. The lost trail could not be found, and wrath pos­sessed him. He looked at the rene­gade, and ut­tered his dis­con­tent.

Brax­ton Wy­att longed more than ev­er to tell; they were there so near, it seemed he must tell; but the dead­ly ri­fles held him back. No one of their bul­lets would miss!

“Yel­low Pan­ther,” he said, and his voice fal­tered, “let us aban­don the trail and go back.”

Yel­low Pan­ther looked at him, as­ton­ished by words and man­ner alike.

“Go back!” he said. “Did you not tell me that they were false, that there were no such war­riors in the Shawnee vil­lage?”

Brax­ton Wy­att trem­bled, and the cold sweat came again on his fore­head. If on­ly those ri­fles were not there in the thick­et! A mighty pow­er seemed to draw him about for one look, on­ly one! But he did not dare--it was death!--and with a supreme ef­fort he wrenched him­self away.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I was ea­ger for war, ea­ger to see the Shawnees and Mi­amis go to­geth­er against the white set­tle­ments in the south--so ea­ger that I for­got the men. But I re­mem­ber them now.”

“Have you a crooked tongue?” asked Yel­low Pan­ther.

“No, no!” cried Brax­ton Wy­att, in mor­tal ter­ror of the three ri­fles. “I had, but I have not now! I am telling you the truth! As I live I am, Yel­low Pan­ther! I was anx­ious for the war, anx­ious as you are, and it brought a cloud be­fore my eyes. I could not re­mem­ber then, but I re­mem­ber now! The men were true Shawnees, and the Shawnee na­tion does not wish to go on the great war trail this year.”

Yel­low Pan­ther looked at him with in­dig­na­tion and con­tempt, and hes­itat­ed. Brax­ton Wy­att trem­bled once more. Would the chief be­lieve? He must be­lieve! He must make him be­lieve, or he would die!

“I wished to tell you be­fore we start­ed, Yel­low Pan­ther,” he said, “but I feared then your just anger. Now we have lost the trail, and I must save you from fur­ther trou­ble. Why should I tell you this now if it is not true? Why else should I avow that I have spo­ken false words?”

Yel­low Pan­ther looked at the un­hap­py fig­ure and face, and be­lieved.

“It is enough,” he said. “We will go back to our own vil­lage. Come!”

He spoke to his war­riors, and they re­turned swift­ly on their own tracks to the Mi­ami vil­lage. Brax­ton Wy­att went with them, and he dared not look back once at that fate­ful clump of bush­es.

When they were gone far be­yond sight, Hen­ry Ware, Tom Ross, and Shif'less Sol rose up, looked at each oth­er, and laughed.

“That wuz well done, Hen­ry,” said Shif'less Sol lazi­ly. “I nev­er knowed a purtier trick to be told. He's clean caught in his own net. If he wuz to tell the truth now to the chief, Yel­low Pan­ther wouldn't be­lieve him.”

“And if he were to be­lieve him, Yel­low Pan­ther, in his anger, would tom­ahawk him,” said Hen­ry Ware, “No, Brax­ton Wy­att will not dare to tell.”

“And now we may take it easy,” said Tom Ross. “But I wouldn't like to be in your place, Hen­ry, ef ev­er you wuz to fall in­to the hands uv Yel­low Pan­ther an' that rene­gade.”

“I'll take care that I don't have any such bad luck,” said Hen­ry. “And now we must find Paul and Jim.”

Serene­ly sat­is­fied, they re­sumed their jour­ney, but now they went at a slow­er gait.