Sandy managed to pluck up a little fresh hope. From what the painted brave said, if he tried again to escape they would do something desperate. Did that mean they would let him live if he gave in, and allowed himself to be made a prisoner? The man who gripped him held his hands behind, while another secured his wrists together with buckskin thongs. That looked as though they meant to take him along with them, perhaps to their village. And so presently Sandy found himself marching along over the blackened ground, hedged in by a quartette of vicious looking Indians. They paid little attention to him, though if at any time he seemed to slacken his pace, which was a jog-trot, such as Indians can keep up all day, he received, as a gentle reminder that he was to put on fresh speed, a dig in the ribs from one of those in the rear. Sandy never forgot that little excursion. While he may not have covered a great many miles, his spirits were so low that it seemed the most miserable period of his whole life. What had happened to Bob? That was the burden of his thoughts. He even found himself wondering whether his brother could have fallen in with these red men, and met with disaster. Then he noticed that one of the four carried a gun, and that it was such a weapon as the French traders used in dealing with the Indians, and not a staunch musket like the English possessed. If Bob had escaped both the peril of the fire and that of the Indians, would he discover what had happened to his brother and carry the news home? By degrees they had edged away from the burned tract. The wind had died out, and finally, after crossing a line of flickering flames that was making but poor progress, Sandy discovered that they no longer walked through blackened stuff, but upon leaves that had not felt the touch of fire. "Why, there must have been a shower over this way," he said to himself, noticing that the ground seemed wet; and that was exactly what had happened. He heard his captors exchanging remarks again, and from their manner guessed that the end of their pilgrimage must be close at hand. "Perhaps it is a village they are taking me to," he said, remembering what he had heard from Blue Jacket. Surely that was a dog barking somewhere ahead. Did the Indians have dogs? Yes, he remembered that this was so. Blue Jacket had told him how they had been bred from wolves, that long ago had been taken captive, so that they still possessed many of the savage traits that had marked their ancestors. And then as they pushed out of the forest he suddenly set eyes on the Shawanee village. It stood on the bank of a small stream, no doubt a tributary to the great Ohio. There were scores of skin lodges, each one gaudily painted with rude scenes representing some stirring incidents in the lives of the braves who owned them.