“Well turn in an’ go to sleep. He’s able to take keer of hisself. Injins is Injins—the best you can make of ’em. They’re jest like other wild varmints—always prowlin’ ’round o’ nights. He’ll turn up in the mornin’. Go to sleep.” Douglas was worn out with the day’s toil and excitement; so, rolling himself in his blanket, he lay down. While he slumbers, let us follow Bright Wing. The Wyandot had left the others sleeping, and had stolen to the outskirts of the camp. While Ross was searching for him, he was in hiding behind one of the wagons, awaiting a chance to slip through the line of sentries. At last his patience was rewarded; and with consummate skill and cunning, he wormed through the tall grass and bushes growing along the slope upon which the camp was situated. When he found himself safely beyond the lines, he nimbly arose to his feet and sped across the strip of wet prairie lying between the camp and the town of the Prophet. On nearing the latter place, he halted and carefully reconnoitered. Apparently convinced the way was clear, he boldly ascended the grade leading to the village, and found himself under the walls of the fortified town. The Prophet’s Town was a sacred place—the Mecca of his fanatical followers. Here he muttered incantations and performed miracles; here he blessed the faithful and condemned to perdition all unbelievers. Many pilgrims came and went each day. And on this night the place was full of fierce warriors—mad with fanaticism and thirsting for blood. The town itself consisted of a large number of flimsily constructed log-cabins and lodges of poles and skins. These rude habitations were scattered irregularly over several acres of ground. The council lodge—or cabin—was centrally located. Surrounding the whole was a palisade of poles and logs. Two or three narrow openings in the wall served as gateways. To-night they were closely guarded; for the enemy lay without—and within important business was engaging the attention of chiefs and braves. Bright Wing crouched in the shadow of the palisade and listened intently. The din of many voices came to his ears. Above the sullen, monotonous roar, occasionally arose the exultant whoop of some excited brave. Through a crack between two of the upright timbers, the Wyandot caught a glimpse of flaring torches and flaming bonfires. For a brief moment he glued his eyes to the opening. Then he arose and ran along the outer side of the wall, until he came to a point where a log-cabin occupied an angle—filling the space between two wings of the palisade. Near it was a guarded gateway. Like a squirrel the Indian clambered up the projecting ends of the logs of the hut—and boldly dropped to the ground within the inclosure. “Ugh!” was the startled grunt of one of the guards at the gateway. “What is it?” inquired his companion in the Shawnee tongue. “A noise at the cabin,” was the answer. “It was the wind rattling the bark upon the roof.” “It may have been a paleface.”