Bradford laughed heartily and continued:
“At any rate, you’ll do well to heed my warning. I don’t want to see you cut into giblets, for daring to aspire to her heart and hand. Shun her presence as you would shun a pestilence. Tenskwatawa’s daughter is not for you.”
Douglas, looking at the speaker, again encountered that inscrutable smile.
Both remained thoughtful and silent for some time—all the while steadily plodding onward. The sun declined toward the western horizon. The surface of the country through which they were passing was seamed with gullies and ravines. The trail sprang from one, only to tumble headlong into another. Precipitous hills succeeded sloping elevations. The forest grew denser. Just as the sun dropped into the brown billows of the prairie beyond the Wabash and disappeared, the long line of weary and hungry savages began to descend into the valley of Wildcat Creek.
Here the trail was narrow and difficult. Douglas and his companion were marching with the main body of Indians—immediately behind Tenskwatawa and his daughter. The shadows gathered around them; the air grew chill. The sharp click of a hoof upon a loose stone, or the guttural exclamation of a stumbling brave alone broke the silence. Into Ross Douglas’s mind came the thought to dart into the bushes, that bordered the winding path, and attempt to escape. Hurriedly he glanced around him—impatiently he awaited a favorable opportunity.
“Don’t think of such a thing,” said Bradford’s husky voice in his ear.
Douglas started. Was it possible his companion read his thoughts? He returned in a tone of well-assumed surprise:
“Don’t think of what?”
“You have it in mind to try to escape,” was the quiet reply. “Banish the thought—the attempt means death. Don’t you see the braves have drawn close around us and are watching your every movement?”
“Y-e-s,” Ross hesitatingly admitted. “At whose order has it been done?”