At his approach the men nodded and walked away from their chief. Minnemung smiled at Jim and motioned for him to sit down beside him.
“Jim,” he said, laying his hand on the boy’s arm, “I have been watching you all winter and spring. Now I have come to a great decision.”
Jim waited, wondering what the old man would say next.
Chief Minnemung leaned toward the boy, his brown eyes stern and serious. “I have decided to adopt you as my own son.”
“Adopt me!” Jim gasped, a chill of fear passing over him.
The old chief continued as though Jim had not spoken. “I lost my only son two years ago with a fever. That fever took four of our most promising young men. I have been lonely, very lonely in my wigwam. But I have watched you all during the time you have been with us. I remember also that you saved my life on that hunting trip when I did not know how to use the rifle of the Shemolsea.”
Chief Minnemung did not take his eyes from the trembling boy. “But the greatest test of all you passed easily. You did not belittle me in front of my clan by telling them that you killed the black bear.”
Jim was startled. He hadn’t realized that Minnemung would have lost the esteem of his clan if the Indians discovered Jim had really killed the bear.
“So you see,” Chief Minnemung continued, “you have proved yourself worthy of adoption into the Potawatomi tribe as my son.”
“Adoption,” Jim murmured. It was the last gift he wanted, because it would mean he would be forever cut off from his own people. “But sir—” he began.