lace of leader, feeling the responsibility and
liking it. He was tactful, too, he would not push Black Cloud from his
old position, but merely remained at his right hand and ruled through
him. The chief was soothed and flattered, and the arrangement worked to
the pleasure of both, and to the great good of the village which now
enjoyed a winter of prosperity hitherto unknown to such natives of the
woods. Nobody had to go hungry, there was abundant provision against the
cold. Henry, though not saying it, knew that with him the credit lay,
and just now the world seemed very full. As human beings go he was
thoroughly happy; the life fitted him, satisfied all his wants, and the
memory of his own people became paler and more distant; they could do
very well without him; they were so many, one could be spared, and when
the chance came he would send word to them that he was alive and well,
but that he would not come back.

When the buds began to burst they traveled eastward, until they came to
the Mississippi. The sight of its stream brought back to Henry a thought
of those with whom he had first seen it and he felt a pang of remorse.
But the pang was fleeting, and the memory too he resolutely put aside.

They crossed the Mississippi and advanced into the land of little
prairies, a green, rich region, pleasant to the eye and full of game.
They wandered and hunted here, drifting slowly to the eastward, until
they came upon a great encampment of the fierce and warlike nation,
known as the Shawnees. The Shawnees were in their war paint and were
singing warlike songs. It was evident to the most casual visitor that
they were going forth to do battle.

It was late in the afternoon when Henry, Black Cloud and two others came
upon this encampment. His own band had pitched its lodges some miles
behind, but the kinship of the forest and the peace between them, made
the four the guests of the Shawnees as long as they chose to stay.

At least a thousand warriors were in all the hideous varieties of war
paint, and the scene, in the waning light, was weird and ominous even to
Henry. The war songs in their very monotony were chilling, and full of
ferocity, and in all the thousand faces there was not one that shone
with the light of kindness and mercy.

Long glances were cast at Henry, but even their keen eyes failed to
notice that he was not an Indian, and he stood watching them, his face
impassive, but his interest aroused. A dozen warri