“Well, so long as we are alive let us hope for the best,” answered Joe, as cheerfully as he could. “Of one thing I am sure. The Indians were defeated in that last battle, and it may be that our friends will now take steps to round them all up and make them give up all their captives.”
“Oh, I hope that happens!” cried Clara Parsons. “I am almost crazy to see mother and Harry and father again—and to see that cabin you say you have built.”
On the whole Mrs. Winship and Clara had been treated fairly well. The woman had been made to work with the squaws, and Long Knife had urged Clara many times to become his wife. But the girl had refused him, and this had pleased Cornball, an old dame who was already the chief’s spouse.
“Cornball wants me to keep on refusing him,” said Clara. “She says that as long as I do so she will protect both me and your mother. She doesn’t care much for Long Knife, but she says he has no right to marry anybody else.”
“Good for the old squaw,” answered Joe. “I hope she sticks by you until we are all rescued.”
That night a strict guard was kept, not alone around the village, but also over the prisoners in the stockade. Long Knife expected an attack hourly by the whites, but it did not come.
“They have missed the trail,” he said at last to some of his warriors. “Sleeping Bear has thrown dust into their eyes.” He referred to a brave who had gone off with the express purpose of “working” a blind trail, thus throwing the whites off the track.
It was nearly noon of the next day that Long Knife came in to see Joe. His face was more sour than ever, for a report had come in that his loss in the last battle was nearly twice as large as at first anticipated.
“Does the white boy remember Long Knife?” he asked abruptly, as he stood before Joe with folded arms.
“I do,” answered Joe, knowing that nothing was to be gained by evasion.