"I am awake and I have laid him over my rifle-sight," came Nick's voice from the woods behind me. "Look sharp, John, that there be not others ambuscaded along the bank."
"He could have killed me," said I, "without showing himself. By his paint I take him for an Oneida."
"That's Oneida paint," replied Nick, cautiously, "but it's war paint, all the same. Shall I let him have it?"
"Not yet. The Oneidas, so far, have been friendly. For God's sake, be careful what you do."
"Best parley quick then," returned Nick, "for I trust no Iroquois. You know his lingo. Speak to him."
I called across the stream to the Indian: "Who are you, brother? What is your nation and what is your clan, and what are you doing on the Sacandaga, with your face painted in black and yellow bars, and fresh oil on your limbs and lock?"
He said, in his quiet but distinct voice: "My nation is Oneida; my clan is the Tortoise; I am Tahioni. I am a young and inexperienced warrior. No scalp yet hangs from my girdle. I come as a friend. I come as my brother's ally. This is the reason that I seek my brother on the Sacandaga. Hiero! Tahioni has spoken."
And he quietly folded his arms.
He was a magnificent youth, quite perfect in limb and body, and as light of skin as the Mohawks, who are often nearly white, even when pure breed.
He stood unarmed, except for the knife and war-axe swinging from crimson-beaded sheaths at his cincture. Still, I did not rise or show myself, and my rifle lay level with his belly.