“This is a smoke medicine. It will keep me from choking.” Those in the background edged closer, ever keen to learn about new medicines. Little Beaver grimly suggested-- “Let the white man draw a medicine that will keep the fire from burning.” “He will do that after the smoke medicine is finished,” quietly assured the old man. “Let Little Beaver watch closely and learn about strong medicines. I heard an owl in the woods telling the ghost of my grandfather that Little Beaver’s medicine is sick, or asleep.” Knight understood nothing of this exchange but felt the drama of it. The chief was now glaring malevolently and all were watching the prisoner with the greatest interest. Despite his terrible plight the younger man found himself likening the curious, expectant Indians to inquisitive little children. The comparison was grotesque, yet it persisted. The old man finished the smoke-spiral and held the dripping bark-brush high and sharply called out: “Look! Look! With sharp eyes and see a strong medicine!” The gaze of all was lifted to watch the brush, now slowly describing a small circle. With incredible quickness the thin claw-like hand shot forward and plucked a skinning-knife from a Wyandot’s belt and almost with the same movement thrust it deep between the man’s bare ribs. Simultaneously the brush was smeared across the face of the next nearest man. It was done and the prisoner was leaping toward the dusky woods before an Indian could make a move. Then Little Beaver threw up his gun and fired just as the prisoner was making cover. Yelling like wolves, men raced after the fugitive. Knight huskily exclaimed aloud-- “He got clear!” The old man had worked most cunningly. He had “got clear”--clear of the stake and the flaying knives, and never again could he suffer hurt. Bryant felt nauseated as the chief returned to the fire, carrying the yellowish white scalp. * * * * * There was no rejoicing over this trophy. Little Beaver respectfully placed it on the fire and directed that the dead warrior be hidden in the ground, or a hollow log, and that the camp be shifted a few miles. It was not a good place for Wyandot men to tarry in. The white man’s medicine was about the little opening. It had saved him from the smoke and the coals, even as he had claimed that it would. He had died painlessly and had cheated his captors. He was a very wise old man, and his ghost even now was laughing at them. Around red camp-fires he would be spoken of with great respect.