He begged piteously for mercy, but his words were lost in the clamor of voices which ensued, and as many of the squaws had by this time crowded in and others were looking in at the door and window, and were adding their shrill chorus to the general outcry, the tumult became very great.
Running Water’s voice could not be distinguished in the uproar, and Joe’s minutes would have been few had not the Indian leader rushed forward and forcibly held back the foremost of the assailants.
His wishes, being thus made known, were at once acquiesced in, and something like order was restored while he addressed his companions, angrily enough at first, but with a voice which subsided into gentle and more persuasive tones as he proceeded.
There was nothing savage in this man’s appearance except the inevitable scalp lock, and the few dashes of paint with which his cheeks were besmeared; yet this was not the terrifying war paint, but the rouge of the red man’s toilet, intended for a beautifying effect, and answering its purpose in the main quite as well as the cosmetics of civilized life.
In one respect it had a marked advantage over them, for there was no false pretense about it. It did not claim to be nature’s pure bloom. It was paint—open, honest, undisguised paint.
Running Water was a tall man, with a high, smooth forehead, and, as he now motioned to the negro to rise, and addressed him in broken English, his manner was anything but threatening.
“Sarvant, sah!” said Joe, coming slowly forward and bowing repeatedly, yet keeping a watchful eye upon the bystanders. “Hope you’s well, sah—you and Mrs. Running Water, sah, and de chillen——”
“Who you be?” asked the Indian.
“I’m Joe, sah. Joe Congo, one ob de stewards, sah, to de Enterprise, wot was lost, sah. You must hab seen it in de newspapers, sah”—and Joe was rattling off a long story when the red man interrupted him.
“Speakum slow,” he said, “and don’t chatter-chatter.”