He was seized none too kindly, wrenched from the post, and with his arms bound was seated under a guard, outside the council-house, while the council of chiefs, surrounded by squatting warriors, voted upon whether to burn him now or later.
The white man came out to bring him the news.
"You are to be taken to Wakatomica."
That was another Shawnee town, about seventy miles north.
"What will they do with me there?" Simon asked.
"Burn you, by thunder," the white man snarled; and swore at him, and strode away as angrily as any of the red men.
All the Black Fish people, whatever their color, evidently were bent upon the destruction of Simon. A great pother, this, over the theft of a few horses, taken as the spoil of war! But it was not the horses alone that counted. There was the escape of Big Turtle, and the defeat at Boonesborough, and the shooting by Simon of the two Indians on the pony, and to cap the climax, there was his nerve in taking horses from the town pound, under the very noses of the Shawnee warriors.
Simon cogitated. The council broke up and to his alarm he was treated more kindly. He was unbound, his clothes were given back to him, and he was left unguarded. That looked bad; it meant that he was being saved for the stake. The white Indian, had spoken truly.
A firm resolve surged in his breast. If he could but plunge into another thicket, on the way to Wakatomica, he might yet escape. And if they recaptured him, why, the fire could be no hotter for that. He had a fighting chance.
The Shawnees did not delay. Within a half hour a large band of the chiefs and warriors started out, he in their midst. Several times, on the way, he almost darted aside—and each time his heart failed him. He dreaded more beatings—he was very sore and worn.