Nat, The Trapper and Indian-Fighter

by Lettie Artley Irons

In an instant the woods rung with the wild whoops of his captors, and directly the Indians who had pursued him arrived, rejoicing at the capture, and brandishing their tomahawks with savage glee. After a short consultation, the white man was bound securely, and mounted on a small nag, whose powers of locomotion evidently had been exhausted years before, and the whole party set out on the march.

As they journeyed on, the young man’s thoughts were of any thing but a pleasant nature. A prisoner in the hands of these merciless savages, with no one who knew of his whereabouts, what hope was there? If Wild Nat knew of his plight there might be a rescue, and yet, what was one man against so many?

They traveled steadily on until late in the afternoon; then halted in a wood, and all dismounted. Wayne was considerably puzzled by the proceedings. The Indians held a short council, and finally an old, grave-looking fellow, who, Kent thought, might be a chief from his appearance, and from the deference paid him, arose and made a speech of some length. The prisoner, ignorant of the Indian tongue, of course did not comprehend a word, but he saw that the chief’s wishes met with approbation, from the nods and grunts of the august assembly.

The chief sat down and the consultation ended. Kent was most unceremoniously taken from his horse and bound to a small tree. The savages evidently were greatly pleased, and while wondering what it all meant, their prisoner saw several Indians busily engaged in gathering wood, which they deposited near him. The mystery was explained! He was about to be burned at the stake!

The Indians, of whom there were fifteen or sixteen, began to yell and jabber violently, and jumped about, brandishing their war-clubs and tomahawks alarmingly near the prisoner’s head, who heartily wished they would strike a hatchet into his skull, and save him from the fearful death before him. He could meet death bravely in any form, but to be burned at the stake—to die by inches in excruciating torture—the thought was one of horror.

The wood was piled about him, at a little distance, to the hight of a couple of feet, built up artistically with dry fagots, that looked as if they carried in their gray hearts a world of heat and flame.

At last all was ready; the match was applied, and the little tongues of fire began to curl up among the fagots, creeping slowly, but surely, among the dry wood, and lapping hungrily about the sticks as if impatient for its victim.

The young man resolved to die bravely, and as the heat increased so that he began to feel its effects, he mentally commended his soul to heaven and breathed a prayer for the safety and welfare of his aged parents, who would mourn his unknown fate.

The savages were executing a wild war-dance, mingled with shouts and songs, and accompanied by waving of clubs and tomahawks, and brandishing of knives. In the shadow of the falling twilight their dusky forms swayed to and fro, and their painted faces, lit by the increasing flames, looked more like the faces of fiends than human beings.

The forked tongues of fire crawled on, increasing in strength and fury every moment. Already Kent began to feel their scorching effects. His knees were almost blistered, and the dense, rising smoke nearly suffocated him.