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And they journeyed on like friends, except for the whip. But the wool was not yet pulled over Tutelu's eyes. In camp to-night he tied his prisoner; and whenever the doctor stirred, to loosen the knots, Tutelu's gaze glowed upon him, through the darkness. There was no chance to do a thing. "Reach Shawnee town to-morrow when sun is high," Tutelu had announced, before lying down.
He grabbed up Tutelu's powder-horn and bullet-pouch, blanket and moccasins, and ran, too. In about an hour he came to the open prairie. He did not dare to cross it in the daytime, so he hid in the edge of it. That night he traveled by the north star, gained the other side by morning, and kept on until late in the afternoon. He was no woodsman. He could not fix the gun, and finally threw it away.
He was John Slover; he spoke three Indian languages Miami, Shawnee and Huron; and when he heard Tutelu's wonderful tale, he laughed. He told the other Indians the truth: that the prisoner was a little doctor and not a warrior only five feet and a half tall and weighing no more than a boy! The Indians laughed long and loud.
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