At daylight the wearisome march was resumed; and at noon the party was drawing near the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. As they entered the town, hundreds of savages swarmed around them, and gazed in stupefaction upon the unusual spectacle of four grave and dignified warriors bearing the litter of a wounded paleface.
Pushing his way to the center of the village, a large collection of well-built lodges and cabins upon the eastern bank of the stream, Bradford asked for the Prophet. Tenskwatawa’s domicile was pointed out to him. Unceremoniously pushing aside the curtain of skins, he entered the dark hut. The Prophet lay stretched upon a fur rug near the center of the floor, his feet to the fire that alone lighted the dismal interior. He did not offer to arise at Bradford’s entrance; but greeted him with a grunt of recognition. The intruder went straight to the point, by saying:
“My prisoner escaped. I have recaptured him and brought him here. But he is badly wounded; and I want the largest and most comfortable cabin in the village, in which I may place him and nurse him back to life.”
The Prophet arose to a sitting position, before replying. Then he made the heartless rejoinder:
“Let the young paleface die! He is a member of the Seventeen Fires—he is an enemy. His death will subtract one more from the number that ere long will appear against us, to do battle.”
“He shall not die,” Bradford returned firmly.
“Why?”
“Because I will not have it so.”
“Why does Scar Face so much desire to save the young man’s life?” the Prophet inquired, with a cunning leer.
“Why I wish to save his life—why I will save his life—concerns no one but myself,” was the bold reply.