“D—­n poor run.  No good legs,” said one of his captors, and at this the other two Indians laughed.  Then they whooped and yelled, at which signal other Indians joined them.  Isaac saw that they were leading him into a large encampment.  He asked the big savage who led him what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the hands of Cornplanter.

While being marched through the large Indian village Isaac saw unmistakable indications of war.  There was a busy hum on all sides; the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cutting it in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels.  The braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixing war paints.  All these things Isaac knew to be preparations for long marches and for battle.  That night he heard speech after speech in the lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in an unknown tongue.  Later he heard the yelling of the Indians and the dull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground.  He heard the ring of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood.  The Indians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post.  This continued with some little intermission all the four days that Isaac lay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength.  The fifth day a man came into the lodge.  He was tall and powerful, his hair fell over his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of the Indian.  But Isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one of the many French traders who passed through the Indian village.

“Your name is Zane,” said the man in English, looking sharply at Isaac.

“That is my name.  Who are you?” asked Isaac in great surprise.

“I am Girty.  I’ve never seen you, but I knew Col.  Zane and Jonathan well.  I’ve seen your sister; you all favor one another.”

“Are you Simon Girty?”

“Yes.”

“I have heard of your influence with the Indians.  Can you do anything to get me out of this?”

“How did you happen to git over here?  You are not many miles from Wingenund’s Camp,” said Girty, giving Isaac another sharp look from his small black eyes.

“Girty, I assure you I am not a spy.  I escaped from the Wyandot village on Mad River and after traveling three days I lost my way.  I went to sleep in a thicket and when I awoke an Indian dog had found me.  I heard voices and saw three Indians.  I got up and ran, but they easily caught me.”

“I know about you.  Old Tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein’ ransomed.”

“Yes, and I wish I were back there.  I don’t like the look of things.”

“You are right, Zane.  You got ketched at a bad time.  The Indians are mad.  I suppose you don’t know that Col.  Crawford massacred a lot of Indians a few days ago.  It’ll go hard with any white man that gits captured.  I’m afraid I can’t do nothin’ for you.”