“Look! Look! With sharp eyes and see a strong medicine!”
The gaze of all was lifted to watch the brush, now slowly describing a small circle. With incredible quickness the thin claw-like hand shot forward and plucked a skinning-knife from a Wyandot’s belt and almost with the same movement thrust it deep between the man’s bare ribs. Simultaneously the brush was smeared across the face of the next nearest man. It was done and the prisoner was leaping toward the dusky woods before an Indian could make a move. Then Little Beaver threw up his gun and fired just as the prisoner was making cover.
Yelling like wolves, men raced after the fugitive. Knight huskily exclaimed aloud—
“He got clear!”
The old man had worked most cunningly. He had “got clear”—clear of the stake and the flaying knives, and never again could he suffer hurt. Bryant felt nauseated as the chief returned to the fire, carrying the yellowish white scalp.
There was no rejoicing over this trophy. Little Beaver respectfully placed it on the fire and directed that the dead warrior be hidden in the ground, or a hollow log, and that the camp be shifted a few miles. It was not a good place for Wyandot men to tarry in. The white man’s medicine was about the little opening. It had saved him from the smoke and the coals, even as he had claimed that it would. He had died painlessly and had cheated his captors. He was a very wise old man, and his ghost even now was laughing at them. Around red camp-fires he would be spoken of with great respect.
The camp was moved two miles to a creek.[[2]] The men were gloomy and dispirited. A strong medicine had worked against success on this path. Once the men decided Little Beaver’s medicine was responsible his following would fall off. None sensed this more quickly than the chief himself. Like his men he was in a gloomy state of mind when he took to his blankets. With his belt of rawhide around his waist Knight slept by snatches. Each time he woke up he was overwhelmed by his awful plight. It was so inexorable; so inescapable. The darkness was thinning when the first warrior rolled out and threw dry fuel on the fire. Knight’s appearance plainly revealed his state of mind. Unlike Bryant he could not make-believe.
[Footnote 2: Salt Creek, Jackson County.]
His guards rose and unfastened the thongs running from their waists to the prisoner’s waist. His feet were untied and he was helped to stand. The men were courteous, even gentle, but now he knew all this was deliberately planned to increase his suffering. He held out his hands for one of the men to unfasten. The Indians had no fear that he could escape; and did he try his disappointment would be their joy. One of his guards released the thong and Knight rubbed his hands and wrists smartly. As he did this he looked for a possible avenue of escape.