Oscar Parton did not resist when his captors drew him into their boat, which was paddled into the middle of the stream.

He saw that resistance would prove futile, for his struggle with the dead warrior had wearied him.

His captors were real red athletes, with great breadth of chest, and strong arms. They regarded him with much curiosity, and did not speak until the boat began to ascend the stream.

“The Blacksnake’s spy!” said one, half interrogatively, as he peered into the young man’s face.

His accent told Parton that he was a Shawnee.

“I am not a spy,” was the reply, “I have never trailed the Indian, with a rifle ready to take his life.”

The red men exchanged significant glances, and the youngest, a youth of eighteen, spoke:

“Pale face is a Yengee.”[C]“I am an American,” Oscar said, knowing that an attempt to conceal his national identity would result in no good to him. “I have lived at the mouth of the Swift River,[D] lifting no arm against the Indian.”

“But why is white man here?” asked the Shawnee.

Then followed the narrative of the flight of the Merriweather family, and the story of Kate’s abduction. The two Indians listened without interruption; but at certain stages of the narration they exchanged meaning looks.

It was evident that they credited the story, for the young man told it in a plain, straightforward manner, embellishing it with no rhetoric.

“White guide steal girl?” the young Indian—a Seneca—said, and the elder nodded his head in confirmation. “Him bad man. Decoys boats to the wrong side of river for the red man. Parquatoc no like him, for he makes war on women and children.”

For several moments the savages conversed together in whispers, and in the Indian tongue, of which the captive caught but few words which he understood. His fate appeared to be the subject of conversation, and he waited with much anxiety and impatience for the end of the council.

Escape was not to be thought of, for his limbs were bound, and he would have sank beneath the waves like a stone if he had thrown himself from the boat.

At last the dark heads separated, and the young settler looked into the Indian’s eyes as if seeking the decision there before he should hear it from their tongues.

But he was doomed to disappointment, for the red Arabs did not speak, though the one who had called himself Parquatoc guided the boat toward the shore.

Oscar thought that the youth’s eye had a kindly gleam, and tried to make himself believe that no murderous light was in the orbs of his companion.

Parquatoc sent the boat to the bank with strong, rapid strokes, and it finally struck with a dull thud that made the light craft quiver. Then he severed Oscar’s leg bonds, and the settler stood erect on the shore, ten miles below the scene of his capture.

His thoughts were of Harvey Catlett, whom he had left so unceremoniously, and who might think that he had deserted him to hunt alone for the stolen girl.

He did not quail before the uncertain fate that stared him in the face; but resolved to meet it, dread as it might be, like a man.

The boat was drawn upon the bank, and lifted into the boughs of a huge tree, which told that it was not to kiss the waves again that night.

The Shawnee deposited it there while the young Seneca guarded the settler. But such vigilance was useless, for Oscar had resolved to attempt no escape that did not offer the best signs of success.

Having deposited the boat in the tree so well that none but the keenest of eyes could have found it, the eldest savage gave his companion a look, and the next moment a knife flashed in his hand.

Oscar thought that his doom was near at hand, for Parquatoc stepped forward, his scarlet fingers encircling the buckhorn handle of the keen blade. But though the youth’s eyes flashed and his well-knit figure quivered, there was no gleam of murder in his eyes.

The Shawnee looked on without a sign of interference.

“The pale face has said that he does not hate the Indian!” the youth said.

“Why should I? He has never done me harm.”

“But he kills the whites, and now the Blacksnakes come among his wigwams with rifle and torch.”

“True; but the Blacksnake, as you call our great soldier, would not be marching into this country if the bad whites had not stirred up the tribes by lies and rum.”

The young settler spoke with great boldness, looking straight into the eyes of the pair.

“The pale face hates the king’s men and the renegades?”

“He does.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Does he hate the White Whirlwind?”

“He hates Jim Girty with all his heart!”

The Shawnee nodded to Parquatoc with manifest satisfaction.

“Then let the pale man bare his breast.”

For the first time since the landing, a pallor swept over Oscar Parton’s face.

If the savages were friends to the Girtys, and there were few Indians who would not have followed them to death, his replies had fated him to die, and the command to bare his breast seemed to settle the question of his life.

He hesitated, but not through fear.

“Is the white man afraid?” asked the boy-warrior with a sneer.

“No!” was the quick reply, and the next instant the settler’s hands were lifted to obey the command; but the deer thongs that bound them prevented him.

Parquatoc smiled, and cut the bonds.

Then Oscar tore his jacket open, and exposed his flesh to the Indian’s gaze.

“The white man hates the British and the white renegades. He must join our band.”

Then while the last word still quivered the speaker’s lips, the knife flashed across his breast and a spurt of blood told that it had left a horrid trail behind. The youth did not fall, but remained erect, while the Indians regarded the work of the blade with satisfaction.

“Listen,” said Parquatoc, laying his hand on Oscar’s shoulder and looking straight into his eyes. “You are one of us now and forever. There was a council the other dark (night) in the long hollow. The White Whirlwind came and raised his voice for war. Many chiefs followed him; but there were many more who were afraid to lift their voices for peace. The Indian can’t fight the Blacksnake. He will sweep them from his path as the hurricane sweeps the leaves from the trees. Parquatin, our brother, rose and spoke for peace. He told the council that war meant starving squaws, desolated maize fields, and gameless hunting grounds to the Indian. He called White Whirlwind a bad man, who would desert the red man to trail a white girl through the forest. It was a talk that made the Whirlwind mad; and there in the council before the assembled braves of seven nations, he drove his tomahawk into our brother’s brain. We have raised our hands to the Manitou like the white men do when they want to make their words strong, and said that we hate the palefaces who have lied the Indian into the fight. We strike at the renegade; we trail the White Whirlwind; and he shall die for the blow which he struck at the council in the long hollow. White man, you are one of us now. You carry the sign of the brotherhood. Wherever you go you will find red brethren. No other paleface belongs to us. In danger, show the mark; our people are many, and after the next great battle, the cold white faces among the tribes will not be few. You are free; but if you go with us we will step upon the trail of the white rose stolen from you.”

To the young warrior’s speech, uttered in that eloquence which now and then adorns the pages of savage history, Oscar Parton listened with wonderment and strange emotions. It is true that Parquatoc’s words, as he advanced, prepared him for the finale, but his transition from thoughts of doom to freedom was yet swift and startling. He found himself initiated into a cabal of Indians who had sworn to make war against certain white people—himself the sole white member of the organization.

There was a something about the young Parquatoc that made the settler admire him; and now that he knew that Jim Girty had basely slain his brother, he saw a motive for the boy-warrior’s intense hatred.

He resolved to cultivate his friendship; but he did not know how soon the bonds sealed that night were to be broken.

“Come!” said Parquatoc, breaking in upon his thoughts. “The light is not very far away, and we must not be here when the white arrows fall upon the river.”

“But white man no gun,” said the Shawnee, speaking for the first time since the landing.

“Never mind; gun come soon enough,” was the Seneca’s reply.

A moment later the tree and concealed boat were left behind, and the trio hurried from the river.

Oscar Parton walked beside the boy, never dreaming of escape, though his freedom had been restored, for his new brethren had promised to aid him in his search for Kate.

He was thinking about his thrilling initiation, and wondering what would come of it.