Red Stripes
by Hugh Pendexter
Hugh Pendexter’s NEW story of Midwestern Pioneers
From the moment he was made captive near the station on the Big Sandy, the Virginian began looking for an opportunity to escape. He was ferociously angry at himself for venturing outside the station against the advice of the small garrison. Recently arrived from Richmond, he had presumed to know more about red men than did the border people. He had insisted the Indians had abandoned the siege after losing three warriors and having two wounded. And within easy gunshot of the stockade he had been jumped by the Wyandots and hustled away. His captors were from the Lower Sandusky village. Throughout the journey down the Sandy and up the Ohio to the Guyandotte Crossing he had nursed his resentment against the Indians and himself. In the back of his mind was the hope he would find an opportunity to break clear before crossing to the Indian shore. But the Guyandotte was reached and the Ohio was crossed without a minute of carelessness on the part of the raiders. At night the Virginian slept as best he could with a rawhide thong around his waist, from which lines were attached to the waist of a warrior on each side. In addition to this precaution his feet and hands were tied. When canoes were abandoned for forest travel his hands were tied at his back and he was led along by a length of rawhide around his neck. He fell and bruised himself. He was hauled through bushes and was scratched by briers from head to waist. At times the cord tightened, and he was all but strangled.
The leader of the Wyandots was a short, thick-set man. Unlike his followers he wore no paint on his face and his countenance was agreeable and very intelligent. His only attempt at adornment was the red stripe following the backbone from the nape of his neck to his waist. All of his men were similarly painted and in addition were grotesque and frightful because of the patterns masking their faces. The raid had been a failure, and the warriors were in an evil mood. The chief realized that his popularity as a leader would quickly wane did he encounter one more defeat, yet he treated the prisoner kindly once a camp was made. In person he saw to it that the Virginian had water and meat. This consideration led the prisoner to believe that at the worst he would be held in some red village until he could be ransomed.
After he reached the Indian shore several ambitious young men remained behind and did not rejoin the band until the evening of the second day. They brought in two scalps and one prisoner. The chief rejoiced greatly. He would be credited with victory by a slight margin. The horrid proofs of the tragedy were danced with much enthusiasm that evening.
When he found himself by the prisoner the Virginian asked for details.
“We was took by surprize while setting traps for beaver and otter,” the man explained in a monotonous voice. “I’m Abner Bryant. There was the three of us, Ben an’ Tom Durgin an’ me. Ben ’lowed he could make a fire-hole in a clump of willers that no Injun could see. Well, both the Durgins are dead.”
He was a thin, dried-out wisp of a man whose head was thinly frosted by a round number of years. He spoke without emotion, as one who is weary. His acceptance of his capture and the death of his friends smacked of fatalism. The incident was closed and did not interest him. However, he was curious enough to inquire—