CHAPTER VII.
Several days passed. Ross Douglas’s arms were not restored to him. He was permitted to wander about the camp at will; but he noted that whenever he approached the confines of the place, two or more armed and watchful warriors were always near him. Each night he was closely guarded; each day he was constantly watched. He evolved one plan of escape after another—only to cast them aside as impracticable. He fumed and fretted—it did no good, however. He was still a prisoner—and doomed to remain such, so far as he could foresee.
Bradford remained cool, suave—but inflexible as steel. He procured for his prisoner the best the camp afforded; he granted him many privileges. But all the while he maintained a rigid surveillance over his every movement. Ross could not understand the man or his motives; nor could he analyze his own feelings toward him. One moment the younger man enjoyed the older’s company, and chatted pleasantly with him; the next he hated the sight of the scarred face, and was ready to leap upon its possessor and tear him limb from limb.
La Violette kept to herself. When she left her cabin she did not mingle with the savages. An aged squaw was her attendant. More than once Ross saw her straying up and down the bank of the stream. But she took no notice of his presence; and he did not approach her. Yet at night he met her in the land of dreams, and held converse with her.
Soon the small quantity of food the Indians had brought with them from the Prophet’s Town was exhausted. Absolute want prevailed. Hunting parties went out in all directions, but returned scantily laden with game. The Miamis left for more favorable hunting-grounds; the Winnebagoes departed for their northern homes. But the Shawnees, Pottawatomies, Delawares, and others remained. The gaunt wolf of famine was staring them in the face. Bradford’s prediction came true. The savages began to kill and eat their dogs and horses. But Duke and his master still had cornbread and venison three times a day.
One morning Douglas, accompanied by the bloodhound, was walking about the camp. In front of Tenskwatawa’s cabin he was met by a concourse of braves, in the midst of which stalked a tall and commanding figure.
“Tecumseh!” was the cry that rose on all sides.
It was the redoubtable chieftain. Unheralded he had returned from his southern tour, to find his people defeated, discouraged, and in want. The work of years had been undone in an hour. Cohesion was lost, and the tribes were scattering. To the great warrior’s mind, his brother’s egotism and precipitancy were to blame for it all. He had just arrived. His handsome features were set and stern; his black eyes, ablaze with anger.
Unheeding the joyful shouts that greeted him, he strode up to the Prophet’s hut and unceremoniously kicked open the rickety door.
“Tenskwatawa, come forth!” he thundered.