When they came within the circle of huts and tents, Paul was again regarded by many curious eyes, and there might have been more attempts to persecute him, but the chief, Red Eagle, kept them off.  Red Eagle was able to speak a little English, but Paul was too proud to ask him about his own fate.  Not a stoic by nature, the boy nevertheless had a will that could control his impulses.

He was thrust into a small pole hut, and when the door was tightly fastened he was left alone there.  The place was not more than six feet square, and only a little higher than Paul’s head when he stood erect.  In one corner was a couch of skins, but that was its whole equipment.  Some of the poles did not fit closely together, leaving cracks of a quarter of an inch or so, through which came welcome fresh air, and also the subdued hum of the village noises.  He heard indistinctly the barking of dogs, and the chatter of old squaws scolding, but he paid little heed to them because he felt now the sudden rush of a terrible despair.

The Ohio had been the great wall between Paul and his kind, and with the steady march northward, through the forests and over the little prairies, still another wall, equally great, had been reared.  It seemed to Paul that Henry and Shif’less Sol and his other friends could never reach him here, and whatever fate the Shawnees had in store for him, it would be a hard one.  Wild life he liked in its due proportion, but he had no wish to become a wild man all his days.  He wanted to see the settlements grow and prosper, and become the basis of a mighty civilization.  This was what appealed to him most.  His great task of helping to save Kentucky continually appealed to him, and now his chance of sharing in it seemed slender and remote—­too slender and remote to be considered.

The boy lay long on his couch of skins.  The hum of the village life still came to his ears, but he paid little heed to it.  Gradually his courage came back, or rather his will brought it back, and he became conscious that the day was waning, also that he was growing hungry.  Then the door was opened, and Red Eagle entered.  Behind him came a weazened old warrior and a weazened old squaw, hideous to behold.  Red Eagle stepped to one side, and the old squaw fell on Paul’s neck, murmuring words of endearment.  Paul, startled and horrified, pushed her off, but she returned to the charge.  Then Paul pushed her back again with more force.  Red Eagle stepped forward, and lifted a restraining hand.

“They would adopt you in place of the son they have lost,” he said in his scant and broken English.

Paul looked at Red Eagle.  It seemed to him that he saw on the face of the chief the trace of a sardonic grin.  Then he looked at the weazened and repulsive old pair.

“Put me to the torture,” he said.

Now the sardonic grin was unmistakable on die face of the chief.

“Not yet,” he said, “but maybe later.”