The
next hour witnessed a singular transformation. A white youth was
turned into a red warrior. He cut his own hair closely, all
except a tuft in the center, with his sharp hunting knife. The
tuft and the close crop he stained black with the Indian's paint.
It was a poor black, but he hoped that it would pass in the
night. He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it
with a feather from the Indian's own tuft. Then he stained his
face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a
powerful young warrior of a western nation.
He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the
brush. Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge
of the swamp and dropped it in. His object was not alone
concealment, but burial as well. He still felt sorry for the
unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him until he sank completely
from sight in the mire. Then he turned away and traveled a
straight course toward the great Indian camp.
He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the
bright moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection. By
night, at least, it was certainly that of an Indian, and,
summoning all his confidence, he continued upon his chosen and
desperate task.
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