But the Indians could not or would not talk, and all attempts to parley were vain; ponies were brought, and they were forced to mount and be led away wherever their captors chose.
All day long they rode; and at evening, tired and stiff from their bonds and the rough mountain ride, they reached the lodges of a large band of insurgent Utes. Here they were rudely pulled from their horses and thrown on the ground. An eager debate ensued as the captors proudly exhibited their prisoners, and the helpless pair, though they could not understand a word, needed no interpreter to reveal the subject. Close by stood two long, upright sticks, and between them there dangled a small hoop of willow, across which was stretched a round piece of what seemed to be parchment, kept tight and flat by a neat buckskin lacing. While they were looking at this, a puff of wind caught the hoop and caused it to spin slowly round. The side of it now revealed to view was covered with a bushy mat of short, red, curly hair, and just off the centre a white streak across it showed up as a parting.
Elbridge looked inquiringly at his friend. He saw Tom's face become a strange ashy grey. His lips were almost bloodless and seemed to move stiffly as he said in a thick voice, "That thing must be a scalp. It's fresh, and it's a white man's."
"Yes, young man, that's a nice scalp, and yours'll look pretty beside it," burst in a harsh, rasping voice close behind them in tones that made them shiver.
"An American here among these Indians!" thought Elbridge; "why, he must be a renegade, another Simon Girty."
With an effort he twisted his head round to see who had startled them so. No white man was visible to his eye, but right above him towered a huge Indian, a head and shoulders taller than the other Utes. He wore a cruel face of mockery, as he opened his great mouth to speak. "You'll have a high old time, won't you, when you're tied to the stake, and the fire begins to tickle up your toes." His English was perfect.
"Who are you, in the name of goodness?" cried Elbridge, "and what are we prisoners for?"
"You don't know me, eh, Tenderfoot?" was the contemptuous reply. "I'm Big John, John St. Elmo. My father was old Colonel St. Elmo that St. Elmo's Fork's called after. Oh yes, you needn't be surprised at my speaking English. Why, I was years at school in St. Louis with the Christian Brothers. You bet, folks all know me on the frontier now, though."
This was no empty boast. He was indeed well known, far too well known, on the frontier. Big John, the half-breed son of the old French fur-trader, St. Elmo, was as entirely an Indian in his nature as in his features, though his superior intelligence as well as his gigantic frame bore witness to the white blood that flowed in his veins. His cruelty and his cunning were known far and wide.
He stood over his victims for long, boasting of his own black deeds in the past, and threatening them with the torture for to-morrow. Then they were shoved into a lodge, a guard set over them, and they were left to get such rest as they might.