This was agreed to, and by signs the Indians made Dave understand he must come out of the hole. As he hesitated, one of the red men bent over and catching him by the hair, literally dragged him up. All gazed at him fiercely and made motions for him to walk along, with his hands clasped over his head. Not one of them could speak English, nor could Dave understand the dialect they used. He saw that they were very dirty and bloodthirsty to the last degree.
The course was through the forest to the northward, and long before the walk was ended Dave was ready to fall from exhaustion. The Indians, to make him increase his pace, prodded him with the points of their hunting knives, until the blood was running down his back in half a dozen places. Dave might have retaliated, but knew full well that it would be sure death to do so.
At last the party reached a little clearing in the midst of the wilderness. Here were congregated two score of red men, all in their war paint and all showing more or less signs of the conflict of the day before. In their midst was an unusually tall Indian chief, having peculiar lightish-colored eyes. This was Moon Eye, called by some trappers of that time, Moon Hawk, for it was said that he frequently roamed in the full moonlight to steal from the settlers.
"A captive!" was the cry, as the Indians came in with their prisoner, and Dave was immediately surrounded by the entire crowd. They eyed him angrily, and many wanted to dispatch him on the spot, but were held back by others.
"Does the white prisoner belong to the soldiers?" questioned Moon Eye, confronting Dave with arms folded.
"I belong to the rangers," answered Dave. He saw no reason for trying to conceal his identity, since it must be understood that he had been in the battle.
"The white young man is wounded?"
"Yes, an arrow hit me in the side."
"Ugh! It should have pierced the prisoner's heart!" grumbled the chief. "Can the prisoner read the papers which the English write with their quills?" he went on, suddenly.
"Yes, I can read."