"Cut my hands loose," he pleaded, backing up to this brave in a suggestive manner. "Surely you need not be afraid of my running away. But my arms are so tired of being cramped in this way. Use your knife, Mr. Eagle Feather!" for, though he had no idea of what the name of the brave might be, he recognized the three feathers in his scalp-lock as belonging to the king of birds. "Ugh! paleface boy say true. No danger run away!" and with the words the other drew his knife, the same with which he had once threatened Sandy, across the stout buckskin thongs. "That feels better; and thank you for it," observed the boy, with a nod, as his hands fell apart, and he could chafe his numb wrists into a state of feeling. "Ugh! paleface boy much brave! Tell Swift Bullet him fool! Ugh!" said the warrior, as he took hold of Sandy's right arm, a companion leading him on the left. From these few words the boy understood, first, that the French trader must go by the name of Swift Bullet among the Shawanees; second, that the brave had heard all that had just passed between them; and, last of all, that possibly he did not chance to bear the best of feelings toward the French trader, since he evidently admired the stripling who dared defy Larue. When he found himself in the midst of that great throng Sandy's heart misgave him. Every face around the triple circle of braves looked dark and forbidding. In fact, aside from this single warrior who had helped capture him, he did not seem to have a single friend in the village. The French trader was present, sitting cross-legged beside the head chief. He smiled most of the time, as though simply amused at what was going on. Evidently Jacques Larue cared precious little whether the council decided upon the death of the young English pioneer or not. He looked upon all such as a breed of vipers, to be treated with scant ceremony whenever encountered. Of course Sandy could not understand what was said, so far as words went; but there was no mistaking the gestures of the speakers, some of which were passionate and striking. They were calling for his blood! Those who had fallen in battle must be avenged. Boy or not, he belonged to the hated English, and was not their country, given to them by the Great Spirit, being invaded by these bold compatriots of Boone and Harrod? Those very names were mentioned, and by Indian lips. Somehow, in his great extremity, the imperilled lad seemed to draw new inspiration from just hearing that magical name of Boone. He noted that every time the chief uttered it there was an uneasy movement that passed through, the entire assemblage; while many a head was half turned, as though a sudden fear had sprung into being lest the famous borderer make his appearance there before them, demanding that the prisoner be released. What manner of man could this be, that even the mention of his name should cause a shiver to pass through an Indian council?