Braxton Wyatt, a year or two older than Paul, had always been disliked at Wareville.  Of a sarcastic, sneering, unpleasant temperament, he habitually made enemies, and did not seem to care.  Paul disliked him heartily, but in this moment of sudden meeting he felt only sympathy and fellowship.  They were captives together, and all feeling of hostility was swept from his mind.

“Braxton!” he exclaimed.  “Have they got you, too?”

Wyatt rose up, came to Paul, and took his hand in the friendliest manner.

“Yes, Paul,” he said.  “I was out hunting, thinking that there were no savages south of the Ohio, and I was taken last night by a band which joined yours this morning while you slept.”

“Why haven’t they killed us?” asked Paul.

“I suppose they’d rather show us to the tribe first, or maybe they think they can adopt us, as Henry Ware was once.  They haven’t treated me badly.”

“That may be because you were taken without any loss to them,” said Paul.  “We’ve had a big fight, and I’m the only one they got.  Henry Ware, Tom Ross, Shif’less Sol, and the others beat them off.”

“That was grand fighting!” said Braxton.  “Tell me about it.”

Wyatt’s fellowship and sympathy greatly cheered Paul, and he told in detail about the battle with the band, and all that preceded it.  Braxton Wyatt listened with attention, but more than once expressed surprise.

“How many did you say were left back there on the hill?” he asked at last.

“We were ten when we began the fighting,” replied Paul.  “One that I know of was killed, and it is likely that one or two more were.  Then I’m gone.  Not more than six or seven can be left, but they are the best men in all these woods.  Twice their number of Indians cannot whip them.”

Paul said the last words proudly, and then he added: 

“Henry and Ross and Shif’less Sol will come for me.  They’ll be sure to do it.  And they’ll rescue you, too.”

Braxton Wyatt looked thoughtful.

“I think you’re right,” he said; “but it’ll be a very risky thing for them, especially if the Shawnees expect it.  Be sure you don’t let the Indians think you are dreaming of such a thing.”

“Of course not,” said Paul.

The sharp-faced chief now came up, and said something to Wyatt.  Braxton replied in the Indian tongue.

“I didn’t know that you understood any Shawnee,” said Paul in surprise, as the chief turned away.

“I’ve picked it up, a word here and a word there,” replied Wyatt, “and I find it very useful now.  The Chief—­Red Eagle is his name—­says that if you’ll give ’em no trouble, he won’t bind your hands again, for the present, anyway.  I’ve followed that plan, and I’ve found it a heap easier for myself.”

Paul pondered a little.  Braxton Wyatt’s advice certainly seemed good, and he did not wish to be bound again.  It would be better to go along in docile fashion.