Camp-fire and Wigwam

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The journey assumed the most monotonous character. It was simply tramp, tramp, without the least rest or variation. Jack was sure he had never seen such sameness in the forest, lasting mile after mile. There were the towering trees, their leafy branches interlocked overhead, the same array of shaggy columns of bark, spreading limbs and sparse undergrowth. Sometimes Ogallah would step so rapidly that a branch which he brushed from his path would swing back and switch the lad in the face, and once or twice a running vine would be uprooted by a vigorous fling or kick of the foot.

But all this time the squat figure of the chief advanced like a machine. Jack noticed the swing of the muscular arms, the play of the legs and the occasional slight turning or ducking of the head. The straggling black hair, with the painted eagle feathers drooping like the plume of a lady's hat, the blanket slung loosely over the shoulders, the fringed hunting shirt and leggings, the faded moccasins, so soft that they spread out of all manner of shape when the weight of the body rested on them:—all these and much more were impressed upon the mind of the boy with a distinctness that he was certain would last him all through life.

"My gracious!" thought he, "they have come from a long distance; what could have taken them down near Martinsville and so near the Mississippi? I wonder whether it is possible the tribes who live on this side the river ever cross over to look at the country on the other shore. It would not be strange if they did so, but it don't seem like an Indian to do that sort of thing. Can it be these warriors have their hunting grounds away out toward the Rocky Mountains? If so, I shall have a fine time in finding my way back home."

The youth did not allow himself to consider the possibility that he would never have the chance to attempt the journey. The shuddering fear which first took hold of him was gone. Closely as the captors guarded him, he was persuaded they meant to inflict no personal harm—at least while on their way through the woods.

It was a serious question indeed as to what would be his treatment after reaching the Indian settlement. The American race is cruel, treacherous, and revengeful, and though the red men frequently hold prisoners for months and years, they more frequently subject them to torture and death. It will be understood, therefore, why Jack Carleton was so anxious to make his escape from the party before they could arrive home.

Present discomforts often drive away future horrors, and, by the time the sun was overhead, Jack gave his principal thought to one thing—the question of food. He was a-hungered, and viewed with a mental groan the prospect of keeping on the march until sunset, before securing anything to eat.

"I have gone a full day many a time without food," he said, as he tramped along, "but it seems to me I never was as ravenous as now. I believe I could eat a pair of boiled moccasins, that is, if they had never been in use."

He was ashamed of his weakness, and resolutely refrained from giving any evidence of his suffering, but when he detected the pale green foliage of the fragrant birch, he ventured to step out of the trail, break off a branch and chew the bark, thus securing temporary relief from the gnawing discomfort.

High noon came, but no halt had been made. The lad had left the trail several times, and the warriors themselves were more careless about their own footsteps, but seemed to have no desire to partake of food.

The first shock of surprise came when the party suddenly emerged from the woods and paused on the bank of a deep, swift stream, fully a hundred yards wide. The current, like the smaller one, was yellow and roiled, and the boy looked upon it with a feeling akin to dismay. Recalling the indignity to which he had been subjected earlier in the day, he dreaded trusting himself in the water again.