ver their color, evidently were bent
upon the destruction of Simon. A great pother, this, over the theft of
a few horses, taken as the spoil of war! But it was not the horses
alone that counted. There was the escape of Big Turtle, and the defeat
at Boonesborough, and the shooting by Simon of the two Indians on the
pony, and to cap the climax, there was his nerve in taking horses from
the town pound, under the very noses of the Shawnee warriors.

Simon cogitated. The council broke up and to his alarm he was treated
more kindly. He was unbound, his clothes were given back to him, and
he was left unguarded. That looked bad; it meant that he was being
saved for the stake. The white Indian, had spoken truly.

A firm resolve surged in his breast. If he could but plunge into
another thicket, on the way to Wakatomica, he might yet escape. And if
they recaptured him, why, the fire could be no hotter for that. He had
a fighting chance.

The Shawnees did not delay. Within a half hour a large band of the
chiefs and warriors started out, he in their midst. Several times, on
the way, he almost darted aside--and each time his heart failed him.
He dreaded more beatings--he was very sore and worn.

But after they had marched a distance unknown to him, although it
seemed long, they commenced to beat their drum, and raise the scalp
halloo. The next village was near; they were calling for the gauntlet,
and the stake. This made his flesh cringe, and pricked him to action.
Now, or never! With a great spring and a wild whoop he bolted into the
brush.

He tore through; his sudden strength was that of a buffalo, his speed
that of a stag. He was running for his life; and he was getting free,
too, for they did not catch him. He left them behind, their pursuit
whoops grew muffled and uncertain, he had the wide forest before him,
and hope swelled; he had distanced bullet and horse and foot. Then,
full tilt he fairly rammed into the very midst of a party of other
Shawnees, who had come out from the village.

It was a sickening disappointment. He quit, breathless, and they
seized him, put a rope around his neck, this time, and led him to the
town.

The village was Pickaway or Piqua, just south of present Springfield in
west central Ohio, on the road to Wakatomica. They tied him to a post
in front of the council-house here, and held another debate. After
that the village and its visitors danced around him and threatened hi