down from an old shed, were launched now and floated
close to shore. Into one of these was carried the helpless and enraged
Red Bull, where he was propped up against a thwart. In front of him, on
guard, squatted Little Tim. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns took their
places, respectively, at stern and bow, equipped with paddles. The
second canoe was hastily filled with the four others. They made a heavy
load for each canoe, and brought them down low in the water.

"Easy now," cautioned Tom Harris, as the party started forth. "We're
well down to the gunwales. No monkeying, or we'll upset."

They proceeded carefully and silently up stream, with the moon coming up
over the still water to light them on their way.

A mile and a half up the stream, they paused where a shabby structure of
rough boards, eked out with odds and ends of shingle stuff, with a rusty
funnel protruding from the roof, showed a little back from shore, on a
cleared spot amid some trees.

"Here's the camp," cried Harvey; and they grounded the canoes within its
shadow.

The chief, Red Bull, clearly not resigned to his fate, but squirming
helplessly, was conveyed up the bank and set down against a convenient
stump. The canoes were drawn on shore, and the party gathered about him.

"What are we going to do with him, anyway, now we've got him?" inquired
George Warren.

"Oh, he's got to be tried by a war council," said Henry Burns; "and all
of us are scouts, and we've got to tell how many pale-faces he's
scalped, and then he's got to be sentenced to be put to torture and
scalped and--and all that sort of thing. And then we'll dance around him
and--and then by and by--well, I suppose we'll have to let him go. I
don't know just how, but we'll arrange that. But we've got to have a
fire first, to make it a real war council."

They had one going shortly, down near the shore, and casting a weird
glare upon the scene.

After a preliminary dance about their captive, in which they lent colour
to the picture by brandishing war-clubs and improvised tomahawks, they
sat in solemn council on the chief.

"Fellow scouts," said Henry Burns, addressing his assembled followers,
"this is the great Indian chief, Magua, the dog of the Wyandots--"

"Whoopee!" yelled Little Tim, "that's him. He killed Un-cuss, didn't he,
Henry?"

"The brave scout has spoken well," replied Henry Burns. "This is the
cruel dog of the Wyandots; slayer of the brave Uncas; shot at by
Hawkeye, th