In the morning he was painted black again, and sent away afoot in charge of a large Shawnee, who drove him with a hickory whip. They were bound for the Shawnee towns, forty miles southwest—probably to Wakatomica. The doctor, who was not much over five feet tall and weighed scarcely more than one hundred and twenty, trotted valiantly, glad that he had not been tied by a rope. But because he was so small, and was not a warrior, the Shawnee seemed to think him harmless.
A warrior armed with gun and hatchet and knife should have no fear of a midget white man who had been well beaten.
"There lie the bones of your Big Captain," the Shawnee jeered, when they passed the charred Crawford stake.
The doctor only smiled as well as he could, with such a jaw. He showed no fear. He pretended to feel safe, for he was going "to see his friends." He began to make up to his guard, whose name was Tutelu.
The Fight of the Privates.
For all his surly looks Tutelu proved to be good-natured. He and the doctor proceeded to fool each other.
"When we reach the Shawnee towns, you and I will live together in the same cabin, as brothers," the doctor proposed.
Tutelu grinned. He grinned to think that this white man was so simple, and he grinned to think that this white man wished to live with him.