No doubt Tom had reason to feel anxious. When he started away from home he knew that he must encounter difficulties and endure privations, but he had not thought of danger. He was only a boy of sixteen, and at that age one seldom weighs carefully the consequences of any given step. How then did he feel? Serious, to be sure, but the thought of danger gave him a feeling of excitement and exhilaration that was partly pleasurable. He felt older, more like a man, now that he found himself in a situation which men would consider serious.
The little party moved on with great caution, scarcely speaking above a whisper.
Though they were in the woods, there was a good trail, and they had no difficulty in making their way onward on horseback. There was very little underbrush. Straight and high-branched, the trees rose in lofty majesty. They were stripped of their foliage, for it was a winter month, but they looked like dark sentinels, posted by nature, to warn off intruders from her vast and lonely domain.
Suddenly Peter Brush, who was gifted with keen sight, clutched Tom by the arm.
Tom followed the direction of the extended finger, and his heart beat quicker as he caught sight of a company of savages sitting in a circle beneath the overspreading branch of an immense tree a dozen rods away. A fire had been kindled in the center of the group, and the savages were evidently enjoying it. Their day’s tramp was over, and in their silent way they were enjoying their evening rest.
The Indians numbered not far from twenty. The dusky warriors sat in silence, wearing their usual look of gravity. Among all races there is probably not one less social than the American Indian. A garrulous Indian would be a curiosity.
The three travelers gazed as if fascinated upon the group of savages. In spite of the dire peril in which they stood, their curiosity was excited by one member of the dusky company.
It was a boy, about as old as Tom, apparently, who was incased in a blanket, and lay close to the fire. I say incased to indicate how closely the blanket was folded around his boyish form.
Beside him sat a tall, stalwart warrior, who gazed on the boy with a look of evident anxiety.
The boy’s thin features, and a certain contraction of his brow, indicated that he was sick and in pain. Lycurgus Spooner and Peter Brush judged that he was the chief’s son, or, at least, the son of a man of distinction.