"You lie. Get beatin'. Mebbe get killed. Where live, fat boy?" "Louisville." One and all they stuck to the story. They had no notion of betraying the cabins of Colonel Pope and his neighbors. The Indians grunted in disgust, put the boys in their midst and hustled them to the river. "Guess we're in for it," remarked William Wells. "We'll keep a stiff upper lip. Who are they? Miamis?" "Reckon so. Or Potawatomis. Glad they ain't Shawnees," answered Little Fat Bear. "Shucks! If I hadn't tumbled--! Don't you cry, brother," he warned. "Who's cryin'! Don't you bawl, yourself!" "I blamed near skinned out. If I'd had a better head start I'd have run clean home; and then the folks would be makin' these Injuns hop, you bet," declared Brashear, the "Buck Elk." "Aw, the Injuns would have followed you. They'd likely have shot you, so you wouldn't give the alarm," retorted Fat Bear, wisely. "We're all right. Who's afraid of Injuns. If we don't act up they'll treat us well. The Miamis and Potawatomis ain't as bad as the Shawnees." "Wonder where they'll take us," puffed the fifth boy. They were being hustled at a trot. The river was crossed on the slushy ice. All that day they traveled northward; and all the next day, and the next, and the next, and on and on. No pursuit was sighted. Probably Colonel Pope and the other families had thought that they were spending Sunday at the ponds, and had not looked for them until Monday morning. The Indians were Miamis. That promised a journey clear to northern Indiana, perhaps. Whew! But Little Fat Bear and Buck Elk encouraged the fellows to "keep a stiff upper lip," and take whatever came; then the Indians would respect them more. If they put up a "holler" and "bellered," they'd be licked. This worked out finely. Pluck always does. They and their captors got along splendidly, and they were not tied at night nor made to carry loads. Nevertheless, it was a tremendous journey, straight northward through the wilderness, with never a glimpse of any town, until, after a week or more, they arrived at the Miami village. "How far've we come, you think?" asked William Wells, when the village was to be seen and by the preparations they knew that it was the place. "Upwards of two hundred miles, I'll bet," replied Fat Bear. He was not so fat, now. That was a shrewd guess. The village was upon the Little Calumet River, near present Valparaiso in northwestern Indiana--a full two hundred and twenty-five miles from Louisville opposite the southern boundary. They had been taken through the whole state. "The gauntlet! Cracky! We've got to run the gauntlet!" "Golly! The same as any prisoners!" "Don't you show the white feather, any of you. Keep together and run like sixty." "And don't you tumble over again, either," they warned, of Fat Bear. "If you're down once, you'll get licked proper." "Make for the council house. That's the way to do."