But the mother only shook her head.
“It is too much, Joe,” she wailed. “You are my only boy. I’d rather die in your stead.”
It was less than an hour after this that an Indian guard came in and separated Joe from the other captives. The boy was taken to a wigwam and there bound hands and feet to a post planted firmly in the ground.
Slowly the afternoon wore away and nobody came near the young pioneer. The wigwam was very close and he was hot and thirsty, yet none came to give him even a drink of water. Long Knife was trying to weaken him, so that his torture at the stake might be so much the greater.
In vain the youth tugged at the thongs that bound him to the post. The Indians had done their work well, and although he cut both his wrists he could not release either hand.
Long Knife had gone off on a scout, but returned an hour before sunset. Many of his warriors were angry over the way the battle against the whites had terminated, but when he announced that the young paleface was to be burnt at the stake the young braves set up a howl of pleasure, and the defeat was forgotten.
It was settled that the burning was to take place at sunset, and this awful ceremony was preceded by several incantations by the medicine man of the village, and then by a fire dance of the Indians themselves.
While the dance was in progress Mrs. Winship and Clara were brought out and their hands were bound behind them. Four squaws stood close by, each with a whip in hand, ready to flog either of the captives should they show any signs of disobedience.
In the center of a clearing another post was planted, and presently Joe was led forth from the wigwam and stood up against this. Then a rope, soaked in water, was tied around both the youth and the post, making him a prisoner once more.
The Indians had a pile of brushwood handy, and this was speedily shoved up around the captive. Then Long Knife stepped forward and faced Joe, his black eyes gleaming more maliciously than ever.