While they are snatching a few hours of repose, let us go back to the Indian camp upon Wildcat Creek.
Fifteen minutes after Douglas’s departure, Bradford regained consciousness. At first he lay and stared vacantly around him. Then a keen remembrance of all that had occurred came to him, and he attempted to arise. He tugged at his bonds; half arose to a sitting posture; and fell back helpless.
“Overpowered, but not outwitted!” he muttered, rolling his aching head. “The Indians are on the qui vive, and will recapture him. Also, they will take his venturesome comrades prisoners. I hope they’ll not hurt either of the three.
“How long have I lain here? I must have received a severe blow; I’m dizzy, and my head aches. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me while he had the chance. Perhaps he doesn’t hate me as he did. God grant that it may be so! Of course he has taken my arms with him. Well, I can’t blame him; I robbed him of his own. I was a fool to send away the two guards. I should have kept them at hand day and night. Why don’t the redskins come; what can be the cause of their delay?”
Again he essayed to arise, and again fell back with a groan. The fire had burned down; the room was in darkness. No sound came to his ears, but the patter of the rain upon the bark roof, the fitful sough of the wind, and the sullen boom of the rushing stream. A half hour passed. He strained at the thongs that bound his limbs, but accomplished nothing.
“Curse the luck!” he cried angrily. “Why don’t the red hounds put in an appearance? Can it be possible he has escaped them? How strong and active he is. He was too much for me, with all my skill as a wrestler. Mercy, how my head aches! And how manly and brave he is; a young man of whom any father might be proud! But he hates me—hates me! In the name of all the fiends, must I lie here helpless while he makes his escape? I shall go mad. Hark! Footsteps and voices.”
A moment later the door flew open, and a number of braves strode into the room.
“Is that you, Long Gun?” Bradford asked excitedly.