Crack! crack! went the guns of the Indians. Stinson fell dead, and a bullet split the paddle in the hands of John's brother, who leaped to the other bank, and escaped. Crack! crack! went the guns again, but he was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village on the St. Lawrence.
It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better—sell him to the French.
The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is, the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless settlers.
The whole population—warriors, squaws, and children—came out to welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that? Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?
The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet. It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to give the runner a whack as he passes.
The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack! whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.
"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.
He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs of steel. He has an iron will, and is quick to think and act.
The Indians grasp their cudgels more firmly to give him a good drubbing. What fun it will be to bring them down upon his broad shoulders, and see him cringe!
John comes upon the run. Quick as a flash he seizes the cudgel in the hands of the first Indian, swings it about his head with the strength of a giant. Whack! it goes upon the skull of one, whack! again upon the forehead of the Indian opposite, knocking them right and left. The next two catch it, the third and fourth. They go down as the Philistines fell before Samson. His blows fall so fast that the Indians take to their heels: he breaks up the gauntlet, and marches over the ground like a conqueror. The Indians, instead of punishing him, are greatly pleased.