"You lie. Get beatin'. Mebbe get killed. Where live, fat boy?"
"Louisville."
One and all they stuck to the story. They had no notion of betraying the cabins of Colonel Pope and his neighbors.
The Indians grunted in disgust, put the boys in their midst and hustled them to the river.
"Guess we're in for it," remarked William Wells. "We'll keep a stiff upper lip. Who are they? Miamis?"
"Reckon so. Or Potawatomis. Glad they ain't Shawnees," answered Little Fat Bear. "Shucks! If I hadn't tumbled—! Don't you cry, brother," he warned.
"Who's cryin'! Don't you bawl, yourself!"
"I blamed near skinned out. If I'd had a better head start I'd have run clean home; and then the folks would be makin' these Injuns hop, you bet," declared Brashear, the "Buck Elk."
"Aw, the Injuns would have followed you. They'd likely have shot you, so you wouldn't give the alarm," retorted Fat Bear, wisely. "We're all right. Who's afraid of Injuns. If we don't act up they'll treat us well. The Miamis and Potawatomis ain't as bad as the Shawnees."
"Wonder where they'll take us," puffed the fifth boy.