“Hullo, I’ll have to get out of sight,” he muttered, and started to move back, when he received a push that sent him headlong into the river.
By the time he came to the surface, the canoe was drawing close. Looking on the river bank he saw three Indians standing there, each armed with a rifle and a tomahawk. One of the red men was Long Knife.
“White boy is a prisoner,” cried the Indian chief, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “If try to run Long Knife will tomahawk him.”
There was no help for it, and Joe walked out of the river, and submitted to having his hands tied behind him. Then he was ordered into the canoe, which was a large craft, and Long Knife and the others followed.
The course of the canoe was along the stream, which was not over fifteen feet in width, and very winding. The primeval forest arose on both sides, and in many places the branches of the trees interlaced, making the surface of the watercourse dark and cool.
Joe had no idea where he was being taken, and the Indians would answer no questions. Long Knife and his followers seemed unusually silent and bitter, and from this the young pioneer came to the conclusion that the battle had gone against them, and with heavy loss.
“If that’s the case they won’t have much mercy on me,” he reasoned.
The canoe kept on its way for many miles and then took to another watercourse, which was twice as wide as the first. The Indians were now approaching one of their regular villages, and they passed along in absolute silence, doubtless thinking that the whites might be there awaiting their coming.
But none of the hunters who had gone forth to fight them were in the vicinity, and soon an old Indian met them and told them that all so far was safe.
“It is well,” said Long Knife gruffly. Then he ordered the canoe brought around to another bend, and here the party went ashore, taking Joe with them.