In an instant, Donald Hester, so frenzied by his sister's appeal for aid as to be well-nigh unconscious of his own movements, seized his rifle, plunged into the forest, and was dashing recklessly in the direction of the ominous sounds.
The Senecas, whom he thus left to their own devices, and who had long been expecting some such moment, acted with almost equal promptness in making prisoners of the two remaining white men. A few minutes of animated discussion as to what should be done with them ensued. All were impatient to join their fellow savages, and share in the spoils of their certain victory, to which they also wished to add their own trophies. But what should be done with the white medicine man? He was too fat to be urged at speed through the forest. They feared to kill him, for they believed him to be of a weak mind, and therefore under the direct protection of the Great Spirit. Besides, being bald-headed, he could furnish no scalp, and was therefore not worth killing.
In this dilemma, the Zebra conceived an idea which his companions greeted with grunts of approval, and immediately proceeded to carry out. A few minutes later the horrified paymaster, as naked as when he was born, was seated in his own bathtub, precariously maintaining his balance, and floating away before a gentle off-shore breeze, over the vast watery solitude of Lake Erie.
As the Indians watched him, until he was but a white speck in the gathering gloom, they reasoned that if he were indeed a medicine man he could take care of himself; if he were crazy, the Great Spirit would protect him. And if he were merely an ordinary mortal he would surely be drowned; while, in no case, would blame be attached to them.
Then they gathered up his half-dozen precious wigs, all of which had been laid out for inspection, that their owner might decide in which one he should appear before the ladies, but which the Indians only regarded as so many scalps; concealed the canoe, together with much of their newly acquired property, and started toward the scene of battle. Two stalwart warriors, seizing the unfortunate and bewildered "Tummas" by the shoulders, rushed him along at breathless speed, occasionally urging him to greater exertions by suggestive pricks from the sharp points of their knives.
Although Donald had started to the assistance of his imperilled sister with a recklessness that disregarded all the traditions of woodcraft, he came to his senses as he drew near the scene of recent conflict, and thereafter no forest warrior could have proceeded with greater stealth than he.
The short fight was over, the prisoners were secured, many fires had been lighted, and the deadly work of the fire-water was already begun. With a heavy heart and a sickening dread, the young soldier crept noiselessly from one lighted circle to another, narrowly escaping discovery a dozen times, and scanning anxiously each dejected group of captives. All were men, nor could he anywhere catch a glimpse of feminine draperies. At one place he saw a confused group, of what he fancied might be captives, on the opposite side of a fire-lighted opening, and made a great circuit through the woods in order to approach it more closely.
Suddenly there arose a clamor of voices, and, as though aware of his presence, a score of savages, some of them holding aloft blazing firebrands, came running through the forest directly toward him. There was no time for flight, and he could only fling himself flat beside the trunk of a prostrate tree, up to which he had just crawled, ere they were upon him. A dozen warriors passed him, leaping over both the log and the crouching figure behind it. He was beginning to cherish a hope that all might do so; but such good fortune was not to be his. Another, who bore a flaming brand, slipped as he bounded over the obstruction. A shower of blazing embers fell on Donald's head and bare neck. Maddened by pain, he sprang to his feet, dealt the stumbling savage a blow that knocked him flat, and turned to fly for his life. As he did so, he was grappled by two others, and though he struggled so furiously that he managed to fling them both from him, the delay was fatal. A moment later he was borne to the earth by overwhelming numbers.
When again allowed to rise it was as a pinioned prisoner, bruised and breathless. With exulting shouts, his captors dragged him into the circle of firelight, and when they saw that he was not one of Cuyler's men, but a newcomer, they were extravagant in their joy. They were also furious against him on account of the escape of the women captives, in which it was supposed he had been instrumental. Half-crazed with drink as they were, they determined that he should pay the penalty for this offence then and there.
"Let the palefaced dog roast in the flames!"