The village was rather a straggling one, extending from the river to a spring far up among the rocks. Here the Indians had erected a rude stockade and inside were half a dozen prisoners.
“You shall remain there until another sun,” said Long Knife. “And let not the white boy try to escape,” he added. “Long Knife knows how to torture those who will not obey him.”
“I reckon you are bloodthirsty enough for anything,” muttered Joe in return.
He entered the rude stockade with downcast heart, but hardly was he within than he gave a sudden shout of half wonder and half joy:
“Mother!”
“Joe! my Joe!” was the answer, and in a moment more mother and son were in each other’s arms.
It was indeed Mrs. Winship, but so thin and careworn that none but one closely connected with her would have recognized the lady. With Mrs. Winship was Clara Parsons, who was also amazed to see the lad she knew so well.
“How came you here?” asked Mrs. Winship, after their greeting was over.
“It’s a long story, mother,” Joe answered, and then he told her of the fight and of his capture, and then of life in Boonesborough and at the fort, and of how the others were faring.
“We have had many ups and downs since we were captured,” said Mrs. Winship. “Our adventures would fill a book. We escaped twice, and three times your father and others tried to rescue us. But it has all been of no avail, and here we are still, and likely to remain, I suppose.” And the good woman heaved a long sigh.