It was this same night that Jack and Frank were visiting in the camp of the friendly Cherokees just outside the fort. They sat at a camp-fire with the father of Running Elk, a stately old chief with a hard Cherokee name and great fame as a warrior and hunter. Running Elk was also there, as were numerous braves of the tribe. Conversation with them was most difficult, as everything had to be translated by Running Elk; and as his knowledge of English was very limited, the boys had to work hard to make themselves understood. It was while they were so engaged that a sudden commotion began upon the outskirts of the camp; loud voices were heard in the Cherokee tongue, then the rush of moccasined feet in the darkness. “Hello! What’s all that?” asked Jack Davis, looking around. The Cherokees about the fire had arisen and were talking excitedly among themselves in the laconic Creek jargon. “What’s happened?” demanded Frank Lawrence of Running Elk. The young Indian hunter, who had been listening intently to the voices beyond the light circle of the camp-fire, replied: “Messenger from Talladega. Much hurt.” In a few moments a group of Cherokees came forward, bearing a burden between them; they approached the fire and the white boys saw that it was an Indian brave whom they carried; as Running Elk had said, he seemed badly wounded. However, he was strong enough to talk; impressively he began to tell his story to the Indians, but in the midst of it, catching sight of the white youths, he broke off. Holding out his hand to them, appealingly, he said in fairly good English: “Young paleface, I, Black Bear of the Cherokee people, ask you to carry my message to your chief.” “Speak, Black Bear,” said Jack, quietly; “and be sure we will do so.” The wounded Indian lifted himself upon an elbow and proceeded. “I am of the village of Talladega; we of that village are friends of the white man. Four suns ago the Red Sticks attacked us; they had us ringed about with spears and arrows, and they were as many as the leaves of the forest in summer. We fought, but we were too few to drive them away. Then we held a council, and our old men said we must get a runner through the enemy to bear the news to the white man, our friends.” “And you are the chosen one, are you?” asked Frank. “I am the fourth,” said Black Bear, steadily. “The others were killed before they got out of sound of the council lodge.” “How did you get through?” asked Jack Davis. The brave grimaced; apparently he had no liking for the methods he had been forced to use. “The courage of the warrior was no use,” said he. “So another way had to be thought of. I crept through their line with the skin of a hog drawn about me. It was not until I had cast it aside and stood upright that one of their sentinels saw me; and his arrow pierced my shoulder.” “And yet you made your way here?” cried Frank, wonderingly. Black Bear nodded, stoically.