All that night the sick Charles Floyd moaned at intervals, in the bunk; and George Shannon and Patrick Gass and others kept watch over him; while Peter, on the other side of the partition, listened or slept. Toward morning, when Peter next woke up, he had been aroused by tramp of feet over his head, and splash of water against the boat, and orders shouted, and a movement of the boat itself. They were starting, and he was starting with them! Hoorah! Now he was not hungry or thirsty or tired; he was excited. Yes, the boat was moving. He could hear the plashing of oars, and the creak as the sail was raised. And in a few minutes more the boat leaned and swerved and tugged, and the river rippled under its bow. Peter waited as long as he possibly could stand it to wait. Patrick Gass had said for him to lie hidden until Chief Little Thief had left, and the boat had started. Very well. All was silent in the room beyond. He peered, and could see nobody. Over the partition he once more squirmed, into the top-most bunk; and feeling with his toes let himself down. The door was shut, but it had a window in it that he might look out of; and if anybody opened, he would dive under the table or under a bunk, until he saw who it was. The sick man in the bottom bunk opposite suddenly exclaimed. He was awake and watching. “Who are you?” he challenged weakly. With his feet on the floor, Peter paused, to stare. He saw a pale, clammy countenance gazing at him from the blanket coverings――and at that instant the door opened, and before Peter might so much as stir, the chief with the red hair entered. Peter was fairly caught. He drew breath sharply, and resolved not to show fear. The chief with the red hair was all in buckskin, and wore moccasins on his feet, and on his head a round hat with the brim looped up in front. His face was without hair and was very tanned, so that it was reddish brown instead of white, and his two eyes were clear, keen gray. His hair was bound behind in a long bag of thin skin. He had rather a large nose, and a round chin; and was heavy. “Well!” he uttered. He glanced swiftly from Peter to the sick man’s bunk, and back again to Peter. “What’s this?” “He stole down from above, Captain,” said the sick man. “How are you, Sergeant? Any better?” “No, sir. I’m awful weak, sir.” “Much pain?” “Yes, sir. I’ve been suffering terribly.” “I’m sorry, my man. We’ll do all we can for you.” Now the chief spoke to Peter. “Who are you? How’d you come here?” His voice was stern and quick. “I hide,” said Peter. “Where?” Peter pointed. “Who brought you here?” “I come. Night. Swim down river. Hide.” For Peter had no notion of telling on Patrick Gass and George Shannon. “Humph! You did!” And the chief with the red hair grunted. “Ran away, eh? Who was your chief?” “We-ah-rush-hah. First Osage, then Oto, but me white.” “Where’s your mother?” Peter shook his head. “Where’s your father?” Peter shook his head.