The Indians all treated him
kindly. He wandered where he pleased, in the neighborhood. It seemed
too good to be true.

At the end of the blissful three weeks, he and Simon his friend were at
Solomon's Town, a short distance from Wakatomica. They heard a shrill
whoop; an Indian came running from Wakatomica. The heart of Simon
Butler sank again. He did not like whoops in that tone of voice, and
the Indian was signaling _them_.

"It's the distress halloo. We are summoned to the council-house," said
Simon Girty. "We must go at once."

They and their friend Red Pole, a Shawnee, went to meet the runner. He
shook hands with Red Pole and Simon Girty, but he refused Simon
Butler's hand and scowled upon him.

Matters looked bad once more. Fortune was playing tricks, still.
Matters looked worse in the council-house. The place was thronged with
chiefs and warriors. There were a number of strange chiefs. Hands
were shaken, but not the hand of Simon. He received only scowls.

A war party of the Shawnees had been defeated on the border; the
spirits of their slain required revenge. The stranger chiefs gazed
upon Simon indignantly. Why had he not been killed before? The
Shawnee nation were getting childish. Let him be executed. The
councils had so voted. Who now wanted him to live?

Simon Girty made another speech. He was hotly countered, by the
stranger chiefs. They carried the day. He again turned to Simon
Butler.

"My friend, I think you must die. But I have persuaded them to burn
you at Upper Sandusky, where there will be many more Indians than here,
receiving their presents from the British. I will ride ahead and see
what I can do for you."

He left. Simon was immediately hustled out by the collar and arms, and
led by a rope around his neck was marched afoot, guarded by horsemen,
for the north.

What a sudden change! First he had been beaten; then he had been
painted black, for death. Then he had been released. Now he was to be
killed. He had faint hope. It flickered when Girty passed him, and
saying "I have friends in the next village," continued. It died
completely when he arrived at the next village, and no Girty was there.
His friend Simon had failed, and had gone back by another trail.

By this time he himself was already in torture. On the way the march
had been interrupted by an old Indian who was sitting on a log, smoking
a pipe and watching his squaw chop wood. The sight of t