ter, under cover of the darkness, and protected by
that Providence which sometimes watches over helpless persons,
eventually reached safety. But young Kerr was not amongst these
fortunate ones. For him, experiences more trying were in store. In the
last melee he fell into the hands of a grim-looking, powerfully-built
warrior, who bound him to a tree, and in that most unpleasant
predicament the lad for a time remained, from moment to moment
anticipating for himself the treatment he saw being dealt out on the
bodies of his friends. His youth saved him. Too young to be considered
by the Indians as fit to be a warrior, his scalp was not added to the
other bloody trophies of victory; for him was reserved the fate of
slavery, the disgrace (from an Indian point of view) of performing
menial offices, of doing the work usually performed by squaws. Kerr's
captor, a warrior named Peewash, of the tribe of the Chippeways, dragged
his prisoner home to his wigwam. There the boy was stripped naked,
painted as Indians were painted, his head clean shaved except for one
tuft on top called "the scalp lock," which amongst the Indians it was
the custom to leave in order to facilitate the operation of scalping by
their enemies should the owners chance to fall in battle. A scalp was
the recognised trophy of victory. It was not regarded as absolutely
necessary to kill an enemy; if his scalp could be torn from his head, no
more was required, and not infrequently a wounded man was left scalpless
on the ground, writhing in speechless agony, to linger and die
miserably.

After undergoing the preliminaries of an Indian toilet, young Kerr had
moccasins given to him, and a blanket to wear--a costume perhaps more
convenient than becoming--and he entered on a round of duties new and
strange. He was not, after a time, unkindly treated by Peewash and his
squaw. But the work was far from pleasant, and many were the terrible
sights forced on his unwilling notice at this time. Once, when the
little garrison of Detroit sent out a small party, which, making a dash
at the Indian camp, succeeded in killing a Chippeway Chief, the Redskins
in revenge tortured and killed Captain Campbell, a Scot, who had been
captured by the Ottawas. Such sights filled the boy with sick horror,
and with a not unnatural dread of the fate which might yet await
himself. Rather than remain to furnish in his own person the leading
feature of an Indian festival, it was surely better, he