Then Sandy, who could fairly interpret from his manner, knew that he spoke of finding himself alone, weakened from loss of blood, and unable to even call for assistance.
Expecting to become the prey of wild beasts during the night, he had, with the stoicism of the red man, awaited the end calmly. Then came the paleface boys. His bronzed face lighted up as he told how they tenderly carried him to the brow of the hill overlooking the river, and cared for his wounds.
Now he became dramatic in his recital, and held his hearers spellbound. Surely he was speaking of that white mother now, telling how she advised that he be cared for and made well. It was such a revelation, so entirely different from all that the savage Indian nature understood, that the old men wagged their heads from time to time, and looked at one another helplessly.
Blue Jacket went on. Now he was telling of one paleface warrior who had sought his life, and how those boys stood between. Sandy guessed this. He was hanging on the excited words of the young Shawanee just as though he could fully grasp the full sense of the harangue.
Suddenly Blue Jacket ceased. Striding forward as well as his lame leg would permit, he threw a protecting arm across the shoulders of Sandy, as he faced once more the throng of red men.
"My brother!"
That was all he said, but his manner told the story. He stood ready to sacrifice his life, if need be, to save this paleface lad from the stake. Simple, yet eloquent beyond description, was his attitude as he thus stood there.
Would his will prevail? Had his rough eloquence reached the hearts of those sons of the wilderness?
In years to come the name of Blue Jacket was fated to pass into the pages of history as a famous Indian orator, who could sway the minds of his people as few others were able. And in this fierce harangue, delivered in his youth, he made a reputation as a leader which was to follow him in all after years.