“Now. They are leaving. The pony is being packed.”
So Scar Head hastened to the lodge. The two Americans were bidding Chief Charakterik goodby, and were about to mount their horses. The chief beckoned to Scar Head and pointed to the pony. Scar Head obediently scrambled atop the corn.
“Do I come back to-night?” he asked.
“You may stay till morning, and see what you can see. Do not talk; and be sure and bring back the pony.”
This was quite an adventure—to ride to the American camp with the head chief and the medicine-man, and maybe spend the night there. Scar Head’s heart beat rapidly, but he did not show that he was either frightened or delighted, for he was Indian, and son of White Wolf.
He guided his loaded pony in the rear of the two trotting horsemen. Outside the town Chief Mungo-Meri Pike reined in and dropped back beside him, with a smile.
They eyed each other, although Scar Head did not smile. He was not ready to smile, and White Wolf had told him not to talk.
The American chief had a clear pink and brown skin and a bright blue eye, with rather large nose and mouth, and stubborn chin. His manner was quick and commanding; anybody might see that he was a chief.
“What is your name?” he asked, suddenly, in French.
“Scar Head,” answered Scar Head, in Pawnee.