When Jim reached the new camp, several men and boys swarmed around him. From their midst, a strangely familiar figure rushed over to Jim and took off his leash. “Jim! Jim!” he cried. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Wahbunou.” Jim dropped his drum in surprise as Wahbunou gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder. “Wahbunou!” he gasped. Wahbunou was so excited he could scarcely speak, but he had much to tell his friend Jim. “My father and I persuaded Chief Minnemung to trade our white prisoner for you. We couldn’t bear to see you remain with the Shawnees. Then we Potawatomis made a fire in front of their camp to show we wanted to counsel with them.” “Shawnees!” Jim cried out in terror, looking back toward his father and mother. The Shawnees, however, were now mounted and moving away from the salt lick. Jim could still see his parents riding on separate horses with their Indian guards, and looking hopelessly toward the Potawatomi camp where Jim had gone. Jim turned frantically to Wahbunou. “Wahbunou——my parents! Where are they going? Don’t let the Shawnees take them away.” Wahbunou shook his head sadly. “I tried, Jim, I really did. I wanted to have your parents traded to us along with you. But Chief Minnemung was interested only in you and your drum. The drum helped me arrange the trade, too.” “The drum? What do you mean, Wahbunou?” “The other night,” Wahbunou began, “we heard you playing your drum. It was the first time my people, the Potawatomis, had heard such playing. I knew it was not an Indian beating that drum, because I had heard you play like that in your cabin; so I persuaded Chief Minnemung and my father to creep close to the Shawnee camp to listen. It was then I saw you and your parents. I realized you were prisoners of those Shawnees.” “But my parents, Wahbunou. Why aren’t they here with me?” Wahbunou continued patiently. “I asked Chief Minnemung to see if he could get all of you transferred to us. I told him and all our Potawatomi clan how good you were to me when I hurt my shoulder. I pleaded, but Chief Minnemung wanted only you and your drum. Why Jim, he traded his handsomest buffalo robe for your drum.” “But my parents will be unhappy separated from me,” Jim persisted. Wahbunou sighed and nodded. “I know, Jim. But I think no harm will come to them now, because the Shawnees are on their way to Detroit to deliver their prisoners to the great British Hamilton. He pays the Indians well for white prisoners.” Wahbunou picked up the drum and sticks. “Come, Jim, I want you to meet my family because soon we will be breaking camp.” Wahbunou’s parents, brothers and sisters welcomed Jim heartily into their group. His mother stroked Jim’s towhead and said, “Welcome, friend. We Potawatomis will be good to you.”