The negro stationed himself a little behind the old chief, where, with the greatest trepidation, but with many smiles and genuflexions, he greeted the band of astonished savages who came crowding into the little hut.  
They were as wild and uncouth-looking as well could be. All were more or less painted; and only Running Water, their seeming leader, was fully clad in a hunting suit of undressed deerskin; the soiled and frayed condition of which fully entitled him to the sobriquet which the negro had so innocently bestowed upon him.
 
He might have been called an old man but for the contrast between him and the decrepit chief; certainly, he was not less than sixty, though he was seemingly in the full vigor of manhood.
 
There was a heavy scowl on his forehead when he entered the hut, and his tomahawk was upraised in his hand. But, after a brief glance at the propitiatory motions of the negro, and at the unharmed veteran, the scowl subsided and he returned his hatchet to its place in his belt.
 
Not so others—for several of his followers had already presented their guns at Joe; and one, who was doubtless emulous of the glory of being the first to bring the strange enemy down, rushed furiously upon him, and aimed a blow at him, which the negro avoided only by leaping backward and crouching to the ground.
 
He begged piteously for mercy, but his words were[232] 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[233] 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.”
 
“Yes, sah—sartain! Den—dat’s all! Dat’s who I am.”
 
Joe became conscious now, for the first time, that he was an object of the greatest curiosity to the whole crowd. Their alarm having subsided, they were pressing closely to him on all sides, looking narrowly at him, and some reaching out their fingers gently to touch his hands and his face, until, being rebuked by their leader, they drew back, and contented themselves with staring.
 
“Are you great medicine man?” asked Running Water, after a pause for reflection.
 
“Not very,” replied Congo. “I don’t often take medicine. I berry well—t’ank you.”
 
“Ware you git your paint?”
 
“Paint?”
 
“Uh! Ware you git um?” repeated the savage, rubbing his fingers over the negro’s hands, and then looking at them to see if the color came off.
 
“Jingo! Dat ain’t paint, cap’n! Dat’s my nat’ral color, sah. Didn’t you nebber see culled gemmen before?”
 
The chief did not reply, but gave some direction in his own tongue to one of his people, who disappeared, and presently appeared with a gourd of water, which he put down before Congo.
 
Running Water pointed first to the water and then to the left hand of the negro, and said:
 
“Wash! Make um white!”
 
“Golly! But I wish I could, sah! I can’t!”
 
“Make um white!” repeated the other severely.
 
Joe laughed, and, dipping the hand into the water,[234] scrubbed away at it with the other for some minutes, and then held it up, black as before, saying:
 
“Dare, sah—you see, I can’t and dat water is jes’ as clean as it was afore; not quite, dough—but dat is only de dirt.”
 
“More water!” said the chief, looking at the discolored fluid.
 
“I tell you it’s no use, sah! It won’t come off. I only wish it would.”
 
Another experiment failing to make the hand any whiter, and leaving the liquid scarcely discolored. Running Water seemed satisfied, and said:
 
“Good paint! Stick fast. Have you got um?”
 
Puzzled for a reply, Joe hesitated for a moment, and then, pointing to the sky, said:
 
“Up dar. I was borned so.”
 
The Indian bowed profoundly.
 
“From the Great Spirit?” he said.
 
“Yes, sah.”
 
More convinced now than before that Joe was a great medicine man, endowed with power to heal the sick, to give success in war and the chase, or to harm them with an evil eye, Running Water and his followers treated him with the respect which was due to his supposed character.
 
They set food before him, but Joe, though very hungry, stopped only to swallow a few large mouthfuls before resuming his negotiations in behalf of his friends, from whom he had been absent so long that he feared they might return to their boats without him.
 
He informed Running Water of the nature of his errand, told him of the money which he had given to the old chief, which, by the way, that old man was keeping very close and showed no disposition to disgorge.
 
Running Water listened with evident surprise to[235] this story, and then addressed a few sharp words to the aged chief, who nodded his head quickly in reply—as if he had only just remembered it—and handed out about half the coin, after which he seemed to relapse into a comatose state.
 
“Is this all?” the younger leader asked, at the same time handing the money back to Joe and compelling him to take it.
 
“Yes, sah; near enough,” responded the negro, fearful of giving offense in any quarter. “Let de old gemman keep de rest and welcome.”
 
But Running Water fumbled in the belt of the seemingly sleeping patriarch until he had recovered most of the silver and returned it to Congo.
 
Then he addressed the negro in a sort of chant, the burden of which was the duties of hospitality.
 
The strangers, he said, must not pay for food or rest in their tents, but were welcome to come and partake of their corn and venison, and the coldest water from their springs.
 
Their young men should wait upon them, and their maidens should watch their sleep, and drive off the lizard and the spotted toad from their couch.
 
His song being ended, he added a more prosaic but seemingly cordial invitation to Joe to go and bring ............