AT A SIGNAL from the chief all three prisoners were bound and placed on the ground close by.

Then the Indians, resuming their sitting positions, had a powwow, or, as we should say, deliberated. Though the three captives could not understand their speech, they readily inferred that they were the subjects of discussion, and that their fate was being decided. This, indeed, might be inferred from the occasional glances cast toward them by the different speakers.

There was one circumstance, however, that puzzled them, and naturally. Reference was also made to the sick boy. This they also inferred from the looks which he attracted.

“They are talking about us, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a low voice.

“Yes, but they are also talking of the boy.”

“You don’t understand them, do you?”

“Only an occasional word. I know the Indian word for boy, and they have used that several times.”

“They may mean Tom.”

“That is what I thought at first, but I observed that whenever they use the word, they either point or glance at the sick boy in the center.”

180

“That’s curious. I can’t see what he has to do with us.”

“Nor I.”

“What do you suppose they will do with us?”

“Don’t let us think of unpleasant subjects, friend Brush. There’s one comfort—my scalp is pretty safe.”

“But mine isn’t,” said Brush, sadly running his hand through his bristling hair. It was not ornamental, but Peter Brush was attached to it, and the thought that he might lose it strengthened the value he set upon it.

“Tom, what are you thinking about, my lad?” asked Brush.

“I am thinking that we are in a tight place,” answered Tom, soberly.

“Keep a stiff upper lip, lad. We ain’t past hope.”

“God may help us,” said Tom, reverently.

Peter Brush scratched his head reflectively.

“I am sorry to say, lad, that I never gave much thought to Him. My mother used to tell me about God when I was a little chap, but I’ve spent most of my life away from churches, and I don’t know much about anything but this earth.”

“Surely you ............