Then he and the old pair left the hut, and presently food was brought to Paul, who, worn out by his trials, ceased to think about his future.  When he had finished eating he threw himself on the couch again, and slept heavily until the next day.

CHAPTER IX

A CHANGE OF PLACES

Now came a time which Paul did not wholly understand, but which seemed to him a period of test.  The repulse of the old couple was not permanent.  They came back again and again, inviting him to be their son, and patiently endured all his rebuffs until he began to feel a kind of pity for them.  After that he was always gentle to them, but he remained firm in his resolve that he would not become a savage, either in reality or pretense.

After a week he was allowed to walk in the village and to look upon barbaric life, but he saw not the remotest chance of escape.  The place contained perhaps five hundred souls—­men, women, children, and papooses—­and at least fifty mangy curs, every one of whom, including the papooses and curs, seemed to Paul to be watching him.  Black eyes followed him everywhere.  Nothing that he did escaped their attention.  Every step was noted, and he knew that if he went a yard beyond the village he would bring a throng of warriors, squaws, and dogs upon him.  But he was grateful for this bit of freedom, the escape from the confinement of close walls, and the forest about them, glowing with autumnal foliage, looked cool and inviting.  He saw nothing of Braxton Wyatt, but Red Eagle told him one day that he had gone northward with a band, hunting.  “He good boy,” said Red Eagle.  Paul shuddered with disgust.

More than two weeks passed thus, and it seemed to Paul that he was not only lost to his own world, but forgotten by it.  Kentucky and all his friends had dipped down under the horizon, and would never reappear.  Henry and Ross and Shif’less Sol would certainly have come for him if they could, but perhaps they had fallen, slain in the night battle.  His heart stood still at the thought, but he resolutely put it away.  It did not seem to him that one of such strength and skill as Henry Ware could be killed.

Paul sat on a rock about the twilight hour one day, and watched the sun sinking into the dark forest.  He was inexpressibly lonely, as if forsaken of men.  Savage life still left him untouched.  It made no appeal to him anywhere, and he longed for Wareville, and his kind, which he was now sure he would never see again.  Behind him rose the usual hum of the village—­the barking of dogs, the chatter of squaws, and the occasional grunt of a warrior.  In their way, these people were cheerful.  Unlike Paul, they were living the only life they knew and liked, and had no thoughts of a better.

The lonely boy rose from the rock and walked back toward the pole hut, in which they fastened him every night.  It had become a habit with him now, and he knew that it saved useless resistance and a lot of trouble.  Had he taken a single step toward the forest instead of his own prison hut, a score of watchful eyes would have been upon him.