“To-morrow then my brother will say whether he will become a Shawnee or be burnt at the stake to appease the unquiet souls of the brave warriors that his hand has sent to the happy hunting-grounds?”
“Yes,” answered Boone, “to-morrow you shall have my answer.” But, even as he spoke, in his heart he prayed that some lucky accident might aid him ere the night was over.
“It is good,” replied the chief, gravely. “Let my brother open his ears. The chief of the Shawnees would talk more.”
“Go ahead, chief,” said Boone, who wondered what was coming next.
“My brother is a great warrior; he has fought the Shawnees many times—fought also the Mingoes, the Delawares and the Wyandots. Many a red chief has leveled his rifle full at the heart of the white brave, but the bullet was turned aside by the ‘medicine’ of my brother. Is the chief a medicine-man?”
Boone understood the superstition of the Indians. He saw, too, that possibly he might use the belief of being invulnerable against rifle-ball to aid him in his desperate strait.
“The chief will be silent if I speak?” Boone asked, mysteriously.
“The heart of Ke-ne-ha-ha is like the pools of the Scioto—cast a stone into them, it sinks to the bottom and remains there. So shall the words of my brother sink into my heart.”
“I am a medicine-man.”
“And bullet can not harm my brother?”