THE INDIANS numbered not far from twenty. The dusky warriors sat in silence, wearing their usual look of gravity. Among all races there is probably not one less social than the American Indian. A garrulous Indian would be a curiosity.

The three travelers gazed as if fascinated upon the group of savages. In spite of the dire peril in which they stood, their curiosity was excited by one member of the dusky company.

It was a boy, about as old as Tom, apparently, who was incased in a blanket, and lay close to the fire. I say incased to indicate how closely the blanket was folded around his boyish form.

Beside him sat a tall, stalwart warrior, who gazed on the boy with a look of evident anxiety.

The boy’s thin features, and a certain contraction of his brow, indicated that he was sick and in pain. Lycurgus Spooner and Peter Brush judged that he was the chief’s son, or, at least, the son of a man of distinction.

While taking their observations, our three pilgrims had halted their horses. Thus far they had not attracted the attention of the Indian braves.

What was to be done?

They did not dare to consult audibly, lest the sound of their voices should reach the quick ears of the Indians.

Peter Brush, with an inquiring glance, extended his hand in the direction of the river which they had just forded. Lycurgus Spooner, understanding the unspoken question, bowed his head affirmatively.

The three turned their horses, and were about to retrace their steps, when Tom’s horse gave a slight whinny.

Instantly the Indians raised their heads, and our travelers were discovered. Without a word the redmen sprang to their feet, and, with a wild whoop, that was well calculated to send terror to the hearts of the fugitives, started in pursuit.

When the three reached the river-bank the Indians were close behind.

“Stop!” shouted the foremost Indian, the tall warrior who had been seated beside the boy.

It was one of the four English words which he knew.

The command might not have been obeyed, but that it was reinforced by a gun drawn to the shoulder and leveled at Lycurgus Spooner, whom he took to be the leader of the party, in virtue of his age and dignified bearing.

“The game’s up,” said Brush. “We may as well give ourselves up, and not wait till we are shot.”

“There is no hope of escape,” said Lycurgus, reigning in his horse by the river-bank.

“We might get across,” said Tom.

“And be shot in doing it? No; it’s a bad business, but it can’t be helped.” All this conversation passed in an instant, for there was no time to waste, or, rather, there was risk in prolonging the discussion.

All halted their horses, and almost simultaneously they were surrounded by the Indians.

The chief made a signal for them to dismount. Lycurgus Spooner was the first to obey. It was not his first experience of Indian captivity, and he knew that prompt obedience would be wise.

His example was followed by Peter Brush and Tom, who with much apprehension and anxious hearts leaped to the ground, to find themselves hemmed in by savage forms, and faces grave but void of expression, but even in their self-repression inspiring fear.

At a signal three warriors led off the horses. Tom fancied that the Indian who led Dr. Spooner’s horse regarded the thin, bony beast with contempt, but he might have been mistaken.

Dr. Spooner, Peter Brush and Tom were ranged in line, and conducted toward the camp-fire, preceded and followed by an Indian guard.

It must not be supposed that they were allowed to retain their fire-arms. Their rifles were taken from them, and the acquisition of these arms appeared to yield their captors considerable satisfaction. They had learned to value these articles, which were to them of practical value.

Who shall say what thoughts surged up in the heart of our young hero, as he found himself in the power of a people of whom he had read so much? He remembered a thin, paper-covered novel, which he had read only the previous summer in the security of home, in which had been described the captivity of a boy of his own age. Little did he dream at that time that he himself would ever be the hero of a similar adventure. It was romantic, certainly, but Tom would readily have surrendered all the romance of the situation for a quiet seat in his humble home far away.