“We was took by surprize while setting traps for beaver and otter,” the man explained in a monotonous voice. “I’m Abner Bryant. There was the three of us, Ben an’ Tom Durgin an’ me. Ben ’lowed he could make a fire-hole in a clump of willers that no Injun could see. Well, both the Durgins are dead.” He was a thin, dried-out wisp of a man whose head was thinly frosted by a round number of years. He spoke without emotion, as one who is weary. His acceptance of his capture and the death of his friends smacked of fatalism. The incident was closed and did not interest him. However, he was curious enough to inquire-- “Who might you be?” “Harry Knight. A fool. Knew more’n my elders at the station on the Big Sandy,” was the bitter reply. “We got three of them. Then I had to go outside the stockade to prove I knew it all and that the Injuns had gone. Now I s’pose I’ve got to put in a winter in some filthy village.” Bryant eyed him in mild surprize and asked-- “Know their lingo?” Knight shook his head impatiently. “No sense to their jabber. The leader treats me well. I think he likes me.” Bryant pursed his thin lips and glanced appraisingly at the well-knit figure of the younger man and decided. “You oughter last three days. They’ll manage to keep you alive for two, anyway.” “Keep me alive?” repeated Knight. “But I ain’t sick. Bruised and scratched--” Bryant broke in: “Young man, you’n me will be painted black once we git to the Lower Sandusky village. Better they treat us now, the worse they’ll treat us when we make the village. I won’t need much killing. But you’re younger an’ stronger. You’ll be stubborn an’ die hard. I’m nigh to eighty. Forty-odd year ago they’d had a rare time with me. My pride would a held me up. Now they won’t git much fun out of my dying.” “Merciful heavens!” hoarsely whispered Knight, and he turned to stare at the leaping, gesticulating figures circling the scalp poles. The older man casually explained: “Of course I tried to git killed along with Ben an’ Tom. Didn’t have no luck. Chief there is Cap’n Jimmy, his white name. Red name’s Little Beaver. If you see the slimmest chance for ducking out, grab it. Don’t make over your back track. Strike west an’ lose yourself. If you live to hit the Scioto, travel southwest to the Ohio and follow it down to Massie’s Station.[1] As a fact you’ll prob’ly be overhauled mighty sharp an’ sudden. But that’s all right if they don’t take you alive. That’s the prime p’int I always tried to ding into our settlers. Never be took alive. Now see me! Trussed up like this! ’Low I’ll raise the chief’s dander. Sometimes you can git them mad enough to swing an ax and cheat themselves out of the torture.” [Footnote 1: Manchester, Adams County, Ohio.] He threw back his head and in the Huron dialect loudly called out: