“If I become one of your tribe, what am I expected to do?”
“Take the war-path with the Shawnee braves against the white-skins,” answered the chief.
“That is, betray the men who speak my tongue—who are my brothers—into the hands of your people?”
“Yes,” replied the chief; “my brother speaks with a straight tongue.”
“I’ll see you hanged first,” muttered Boone, indignantly, to himself, but he was careful not to let the speech reach the ears of the Indian. He fully understood the dangerous position that fate had placed him in, and the thought flashed through his mind that if he could deceive the savages by pretending to accept their offer, he might delay his execution—gain time, and possibly, through some lucky chance, contrive to effect his escape.
Boone had been fully as near to death before, and yet escaped to tell of it. He did not despair even now, though a prisoner in the midst of the great Shawnee tribe.
“How long will you give me to think over this proposal that you make me?” Boone asked. “You know a man can’t change his country and his color as easily as to pull off a coat and put on a hunting-shirt.”
The Indian thought for a moment over the question of the scout. Bound securely as he was; surrounded, too, by the Shawnee warriors, escape was impossible. There was little danger in delaying the sentence of the white-skin.
“Will until to-morrow suit my brother?” asked the chief.
“To-morrow?” said Boone; then to his mind came the thought that, before that morrow came, something might transpire to aid him to escape. “Well, until to-morrow will do, though it’s mighty short time for a man to make up his mind on such a ticklish question as this is.”