“Are you women to be afraid of a man about to talk with ghosts? Untie my hands. You are young and foolish men. You do not know how to paint a man who will do you great honor by the way he will die. Are you afraid?”
The Indians approved of this sturdy bearing. He was old, just a shell of a man, but his heart was strong. Little Beaver said:
“He will die very brave. Let him paint himself.”
His wrist thongs were unfastened and his hunting-shirt was removed. He rubbed his hands and arms briskly to stimulate circulation. One young man stood behind him and the man holding the dish was before him. With much deliberation he took the fragment of pounded bark, serving as a brush, and began smearing the mixture over his scrawny chest. Little Beaver looked on approvingly.
Wild of gaze, Knight watched the old man calmly decorate himself for the fire. Bryant slowly drew a spiral and informed the interested watchers:
“This is a smoke medicine. It will keep me from choking.”
Those in the background edged closer, ever keen to learn about new medicines. Little Beaver grimly suggested—
“Let the white man draw a medicine that will keep the fire from burning.”
“He will do that after the smoke medicine is finished,” quietly assured the old man. “Let Little Beaver watch closely and learn about strong medicines. I heard an owl in the woods telling the ghost of my grandfather that Little Beaver’s medicine is sick, or asleep.”
Knight understood nothing of this exchange but felt the drama of it. The chief was now glaring malevolently and all were watching the prisoner with the greatest interest. Despite his terrible plight the younger man found himself likening the curious, expectant Indians to inquisitive little children. The comparison was grotesque, yet it persisted. The old man finished the smoke-spiral and held the dripping bark-brush high and sharply called out: