Simon spent an uncomfortable night. The matter had passed the joking period; he saw only torture ahead of him, at Little Chillicothe.
The Indians were not yet done with him, here. In the morning they seemed to be more enraged than ever. The longer they thought about this "tief," the wrathier they grew. Simon's hunting shirt had been stripped from him, so that he was naked from the waist up. Now they brought in the wildest of the horses—an unbroken young colt. They mounted Simon upon him bareback, his hands tied behind him and his feet tied together under the colt's belly. They turned the frenzied colt loose; away he fled, prancing and rearing through the brush, bearing Simon—they after, whipping and shrieking.
It was a rough ride while it lasted; but the colt simmered down, and much to the Indians' disappointment fell in line with the other horses, to jog soberly by the best trail.
"Thank you," thought Simon. "If ever I own you I'll see to it that your ribs never show."
In this fashion he rode all that day, and part of the next. He had not the slightest opportunity to escape. Chillicothe was in sight. An Indian galloped before, to carry the word, so that the town might get ready. The "big hoss tief"—Simon the "big hoss tief"—was being brought in!
Chief Black Fish himself came to meet the procession. He, also, was in bad humor. He had not got over the loss of his son, Big Turtle, and of scalps at Boonesborough. Simon could not have chosen a worse time for seeking trouble.
Black Fish was armed with a heavy hickory switch. He eyed Simon scowlingly, Simon eyed the switch.
"You been stealing hosses!" Black Fish demanded in English.
"Yes."
"Captain Boone, he tell you to come steal our hosses?"