dition the Indians were glad to
keep away from us. Even Ward would not willingly remain within hearing of
her sweet voice could he avoid so doing. And alas! There were other times
when she was almost violent, when only Lost Sister could soothe and quiet
her.

By the time we reached the mouth of the Great Kanawha no guard was kept
over me that I could perceive; nor were my limbs any longer bound at
night. At each camp Lost Sister ranged the woods and brought in roots and
herbs and made strange-smelling messes in a camp kettle and assiduously
dosed the girl.

Rafts were quickly knocked together and the crossing made to the Indian
shore. I had expected the band to dig out hidden canoes and descend to the
mouth of the Scioto. Instead we struck into a trail across-country. The
path was well worn, and the fork we followed ended at the Scioto above
Chillicothe, the principal Shawnee town.

Much of the distance Patricia walked, although the litter was taken along
for her convenience. Lost Sister talked with me at times and I began to
feel that the barrier between us was much lower. But she never spoke of
the settlements or her brother. Her talk was always a red talk and she
never addressed me except in Shawnee.

From her I learned we were making for Cornstalk's Town, some twenty-five
miles above Chillicothe, located on Scippo Creek. Among border men this
region was known as the Pickaway Plains. Near our destination was
Grenadier Squaw's Town, named after Cornstalk's gigantic sister.

I suffered no incivility during the overland march. My status became that
of an attendant on the great manito's medicine-child. Patricia continued
in a dazed state of mind, but after two days of arduous travel I detected
her weeping. Lost Sister enigmatically warned:

"She is another woman. She is more like the woman she once was. She must
keep close to her manito."

I could interpret this only to mean that the girl was recovering from her
mental shock and was recalling bits of the past, and that she was safe
only so long as the savages believed her to be insane. At our last camp
from Cornstalk's Town Patricia insisted on walking beside me when the
trace would permit it and she startled me by saying:

"My father was good to me."

"Do you remember me?" I asked.

"Remember you, Basdel? Why, of course. What a queer question." Then with a
little frown she sighed and complained. "But I don't understand why I am
here with you and these Indian