The instant I recognized him with certainty, I laid down my rifle, and called to him in Shawanese: "Tecumseh, many years have come and gone since we parted at the British fort on the Maumee, yet do you not know again your white brother Scalp Boy?"
At the word he rose from his knees and stood grandly erect in the bow of the canoe, staring at me from beneath his levelled palm. The craft was now within twenty yards of us, and Don Pedro could not withhold a muttered exclamation of apprehension and warning. Almost at the same moment Tecumseh stooped, and catching up a corner of his blanket, wiped the grim war paint from his face. The paddlers at once paused to follow his example.
"Santisima!" muttered Don Pedro. "Why do they rub their faces?"
"They remove the war paint in proof of friendship. Their chief is one of my Indian brothers, who saved me from torture."
"But they come close! You will not permit them to enter the boat, with Alisanda—"
"Fear nothing," I hastened to assure him. "We are safer now than when we were alone. My brother and his people can be trusted with our lives and our property."
"It is true, señor," remarked Tecumseh in clear though guttural English. "Scalp Boy and his friends are sacred in the eyes of all Shawnees. He is a member of our tribe and my brother."
I reached out and grasped the hand of the chief as the canoe came alongside.
"Come aboard and feast with us," I said.
He shook his head. "No, Scalp Boy; that may not be. It warms my heart to again grasp your hand; but you are an American white man; you have long ago forgotten your Shawnee kindred—"