Wahbunou sighed but did not reply, so Jim felt sure his secret was safe with his Indian friend. Wahbunou would not fail him. He continued to inch along the ground with the drum, stopping every few feet to see if any of the other Indians had awakened; but save for Wahbunou, the camp was silent. When he was certain he was far enough away not to be seen, Jim stood up; he fastened his drum and drumsticks to the belt encircling his long blue shirt, and looked at the sky. It was a beautiful summer night and the sky was filled with stars. He studied them for a few minutes until he located the North Star and the Big Dipper. Then he began walking southwest, the way the Long-Knives had marched in the afternoon. Except for twinkling stars, the night was very black, because there was no moon. Jim trudged along and was soon beyond the little thicket, which broke the vast prairie. All through the long night, he made his way through the high prairie grass, hearing no sound save the singing of the wind. When morning finally came, he found himself in the midst of a trackless ocean of grass, with no sign of any Long-Knives, no telltale path through the grass or sign of the Indians’ camp. There was only singing, swaying prairie grass, stretching toward the horizon in all directions. Jim sighed, but walked steadily on, now and then scaring up a flock of prairie chickens which rose squawking into the air. Taking his bearings from the sun now, he knew he was going west. The sun grew unbearably hot, making Jim very thirsty, but there was no water anywhere. Now and then he would look back to see if the Indians could be pursuing him. But he needn’t have worried. His slight figure left no trail through the prairie grass. As the day wore on he became thirstier, and very hungry. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake to leave the Indians and try to find a band of strange men in this trackless country. Late in the afternoon he thought he saw a line of trees in the distance. He couldn’t be sure, because this steaming prairie grass played tricks with his eyes and he was afraid he saw a mirage. If he could only make it to those trees, he would lie down in the shade and rest a bit. The trees proved to be real enough, and when Jim reached them he fell into their cool shade and fell asleep. He was awakened after dawn by someone prodding his foot and a rough voice saying, “Get up, boy. Who are you? Where did you come from?” Jim opened his eyes and saw two men standing over him. They were dressed in dirty, torn buckskins, with long knives hanging to their belts. The taller man was prodding him with a rifle. Jim sprang up, his eyes shining. “Oh, you’re the _Shemolsea_—the Long-Knives.” “Never mind who we are,” the man said crossly. “Who are you in that Indian outfit? What are you doing here?” “I’m Jim Hudson. I escaped from the Indians last night and I’ve been trying to find you all day.”