What could they think? They knew that fire sorely burned their own flesh, and why should it not his? Still they urged each other on—whispered of trickery, and relying upon the supposed supernatural power of the Medicine, demanded that he should exercise his enchantments, and try if he could not light a fire that would burn the white devil, as it was beginning to be believed he in reality was.
"Will the Medicine dare disobey my commands?" thundered the mysterious voice.
He most certainly would not, had he not been so well backed up and literally driven forward, and was about to raise a burning brand to hurl into the face of the prisoner, when he stepped directly in front of him and asked:
"Will the great Medicine of the red-man show me the arm he would dare to raise contrary to the will of the Manitou?"
Scarcely knowing what he did, the wrinkled, skinny arm was thrust out, and the prisoner looked at it attentively—made a few mysterious passes over it and retreated. But even as he did so, the awful voice, coming from whence no one could tell, was heard yet again:
"Now let him light a fire around the pale-face, if he can."
That was impossible. The hitherto supple arm, that had ever worked the diabolical will of the owner, was completely paralyzed—had become as iron. He had no more power to bend it than if it belonged to another man thousands of miles away. And thus he stood until the pale-faced man took pity upon him, released him, and hoped he had made a friend.
Though this was not the case—never could be—yet he had completely subdued him, and the warriors gathered in groups, wondering what kind of a man this could be who handled living fire as if it had been cold clay. And very long would have been their council had not the renegade Parsons obtained means to summon the chief privately to him, and explain, as far as he was able, the mysteries that had transpired—that such things were not uncommon among the white men—that he had seen many do the same—that he was simply cheating them—had no more power than any other man, and that the voice they had heard was not that of any spirit, but simply a gift of nature that enabled him to disguise his own, so that it sounded as if coming from a distance.
But if fire would not harm him, what would? To what torture could they put him that would be equal to it, and how could they secure him beyond the possibility of escape, when he could untie knots as rapidly as they fastened them?
The renegade, prompted by his master, the devil, was equal to the occasion—soon settled the difficulty, and the prisoner was led—driven on by sharp knives and spears to a distance from the village into a deep valley, whose huge walls of rock arose abruptly upon either side.