“Custa will not be scalped—he has long legs,” said the Indian, again.
“You promise that? Now mind—if you are found, you’ll make tracks and run.”
Custa made signs that he would, and then began taking off every particle of dress that looked like an assumption of civilized garb. In an instant he stood almost in a state of nature, an apology for a tunic beginning at his waist and hanging to within four inches of his knees, and his moccasins, being his whole dress. He then took from his hunting-bag the necessary materials, and began painting himself with great care. Harrod, however, quickly took the matter out of his hand, and finished him off so perfectly, that Harvey quite started.
“I wouldn’t advise you to let Amy see you,” he said, gravely.
“Ugh,” replied Custaloga with the deepest guttural sound he had yet uttered.
“You know she don’t like you in any Indian fixings—but in that she’d hate you.”
The young warrior looked very grave, but made no reply. He was ready, and standing up, his rifle in hand, his horn and shot-pouch hanging from his naked shoulder, he said a quiet good-by, and prepared to depart.
“Nonsense, I’ll come down the gully with you—”
“The night is very dark, the stones are slippery—stay—the red-skin warrior will go alone.”
“Willful and obstinate, like all his race,” said Harvey to himself. “Ah me! it’s a risky thing, a very risky thing. The lad must be in love with Amy.”