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Updated: May 26, 2025
He was seized none too kindly, wrenched from the post, and with his arms bound was seated under a guard, outside the council-house, while the council of chiefs, surrounded by squatting warriors, voted upon whether to burn him now or later. The white man came out to bring him the news. "You are to be taken to Wakatomica." That was another Shawnee town, about seventy miles north.
The Indians took the three of them to Wakatomica; painted the oldest man black and made them all run the gauntlet; killed the man who had been painted for death, but let John and the other man reach the posts of the council-house. Then the other man was led away, to another town; he never appeared again, and John Slover was left alone in Wakatomica. He was rather blue when Tutelu had come in.
While they had been talking together, the giant had pulled up a young tree and battered him first on one side of the head and then on the other. They had tussled. He had stabbed the giant twice, in the belly and in the back, and had left him for dead. At least, the fellow would die soon, for he had not been able to pursue. But a white man was here in Wakatomica.
Then, full tilt he fairly rammed into the very midst of a party of other Shawnees, who had come out from the village. It was a sickening disappointment. He quit, breathless, and they seized him, put a rope around his neck, this time, and led him to the town. The village was Pickaway or Piqua, just south of present Springfield in west central Ohio, on the road to Wakatomica.
He was unbound, his clothes were given back to him, and he was left unguarded. That looked bad; it meant that he was being saved for the stake. The white Indian, had spoken truly. A firm resolve surged in his breast. If he could but plunge into another thicket, on the way to Wakatomica, he might yet escape. And if they recaptured him, why, the fire could be no hotter for that.
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