ren was not keen for it, however.

"Tim, you and Joe are a couple of young idiots," he exclaimed. "We're
not going to do any such fool thing as that. We couldn't do it, in the
first place."

"Yes we can," argued Little Tim. "He ain't got his tomahawk nor any
scalping knife. And he ain't very much bigger than Jack."

Harvey drew himself up and felt of his muscle.

"Tom and Bob could lick him, without the rest of us," continued Little
Tim.

Tom and Bob, who had been added to the group, likewise flexed their
biceps and thought how strong they were.

"I ain't afraid," said Harvey.

"Nor I," said Tom and Bob, respectively.

Thus they argued. A half hour went by, and the band inside the tent was
making loud music as a youth darted up to them, out of breath with
running.

"Come on," cried Young Joe, softly. "I've got the wagon over back in the
grove, and some ropes, and some cloth. Come and take a look."

To look was to yield. The sleeping, snoring figure of the great chief,
Red Bull, gave no signs of suspicious dreams when, some moments later, a
band of boys approached noiselessly the place where he lay. The moment
could not have been timed more opportunely for success. The circus was
about breaking up for the night, and the great tent was buzzing and
resounding with noise.

A half dozen figures suddenly sprang forward upon the slumbering
chieftain. The arms of the dread Red Bull, seized respectively by Jack
Harvey and Tom Harris, were quickly bound behind him. A light rope,
wound securely about his ankles by George Warren, and made fast in
sailor fashion, rendered him further helpless; while, at the same time,
a long strip of cloth, procured by Young Joe for the purpose, and
swathed about his head, stifled his roars of rage and fright. Red Bull,
the great Indian chief, the terror of the plains, was most assuredly a
captive--an astounded and helpless Indian, if ever there was one.

Borne on the sturdy shoulders of his pale-face captors, Red Bull, bound
and swathed, uttering smothered ejaculations through the cloth, was
conveyed to the waiting wagon and driven away.

A little less than an hour from this time there arrived at the shore of
Mill Stream a strange party, the strangest beyond all doubt that had
come down to these shores since the days when the forefathers of circus
chiefs had skimmed its waters in their birch canoes, carrying their
captives not to pretended but to real torture.

Two canoes, brought