THE INDIANS numbered not far from twenty. The dusky warriors sat in silence, wearing their usual look of gravity. Among all races there is probably not one less social than the American Indian. A garrulous Indian would be a curiosity.
The three travelers gazed as if fascinated upon the group of savages. In spite of the dire peril in which they stood, their curiosity was excited by one member of the dusky company.
It was a boy, about as old as Tom, apparently, who was incased in a blanket, and lay close to the fire. I say incased to indicate how closely the blanket was folded around his boyish form.
Beside him sat a tall, stalwart warrior, who gazed on the boy with a look of evident anxiety.
The boy’s thin features, and a certain contraction of his brow, indicated that he was sick and in pain. Lycurgus Spooner and Peter Brush judged that he was the chief’s son, or, at least, the son of a man of distinction.
While taking their observations, our three pilgrims had halted their horses. Thus far they had not attracted the attention of the Indian braves.
What was to be done?
They did not dare to consult audibly, lest the sound of their voices should reach the quick ears of the Indians.
Peter Brush, with an inquiring glance, extended his hand in the direction of the river which they had just forded. Lycurgus Spooner, understanding the unspoken question, bowed his head affirmatively.