"Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzar's place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys have all been cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. Be easy and quiet with them; then you'll get on."
Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company.
Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men.
They all looked about the same: strong without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turn they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.
"Fine weather we're havin'," said Dick Metzar.
"Fine," agreed Joe, laconically.
"Like frontier life?"
"Sure."
A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin.
"Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?" remarked another youth, as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question.
"Yes; was captive for three days."
"Did ye knock any redskins over?" This question was artfully put to draw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.
"I was scared speechless most of the time," answered Joe, with his pleasant smile.
"By gosh, I don't blame ye!" burst out Will Metzar. "I hed that experience onct, an' onct's enough."
The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. In Joe's low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influence those with whom he came in contact.
While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.
"How did you get on with the boys?" inquired the colonel.
"All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I'd like to talk to your Indian guide."
Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide, who left his post and came over to them. The colonel then had a short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe.
"How do--shake," said Tome, extending his hand.
Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.
"Shawnee--ketch'um?" asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible English.
Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining the cause of Silvertip's emnity.
"Shawnee--chief--one--bad--Injun," replied Tome, seriously.
"Silvertip--mad--thunder-mad. Ketch'um paleface--scalp'um sure."
After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin.
"He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day," observed Joe.
"Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently," said Colonel Zane.
"You could hardly have distinguished Logan's speech from a white man's.
Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my brother's wife, a Wyandot girl."
"Did your brother marry an Indian?" and Joe plainly showed his surprise.
"Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I'll tell you Isaac's story some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten years. The chief's daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake."
"Well, that floors me," said Joe; "yet I don't see why it should. I'm just surprised. Where is your brother now?"
"He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace. We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or Hurons, as we call them, than ever before."
"Who is this big man coming from the the fort?" asked Joe, suddenly observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching.
"Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He's the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff."
"Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing," observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel's brother. Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings. The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm.
"These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits," continued Joe; "still, it doesn't seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other. The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel."
"I know what you mean. The flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step--those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods. Well, it's a grand way to live."
"Colonel, my horse is laid up," said Major McColloch, coming to the steps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe.
"So you are going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we'll talk over you expedition."
The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brother and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.
