gently against David’s throat. If he thought to see the lad flinch, he was mistaken. David moved no muscle. Only his eyes shot venom into the face of the savage. The Indian grunted and stepped back. “Good,” he said. “You come, no make kill.” One of the others had gone back into the swamp and now returned with a musket, two bows, and two quivers of gray-tipped arrows. The arrows settled for David the identity of his captors. They were, he reasoned, Wachoosett Indians, emissaries of the sachem Woosonametipom. What they meant to do with him he could not yet fathom. Handing the musket to the English-speaking Indian, the one who had fetched it turned his attention to the buckets and the three discussed them for a moment. David made out only an occasional word, for, while the language they used was undoubtedly Nipmuck, their guttural speech was different from the clear articulation and careful phrasing of Monapikot. Finally it was decided to take one of the buckets and leave the other, and the one who had proposed it, who seemed the oldest of the three, secured it with a rawhide thong to his girdle. As the bucket was made of oak with iron hoops and bail, it was no light
