Guy's choice was to be sunburnt to the waist. He was burnt and freckled already to the shoulders, on arms as well as on neck, and his miserable cotton shirt so barely turned the sun's rays that he was elsewhere of a deep yellow tinge with an occasional constellation of freckles. Accordingly he danced about camp all one day with nothing on but his pants, and, of course, being so seasoned, he did not burn.

As the sun swung low the Chiefs a.s.sembled in Council.

The head Chief looked over the new Warrior, shook his head gravely and said emphatically: "Too green to burn. Your name is Sapwood."

Protest was in vain. "Sappy," he was and had to be until he won a better name. The peace pipe was smoked all round and he was proclaimed third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word _War_ inserted by special request).

He was quite the most harmless member of the band and therefore took unusual pleasure in posing as the possessor of a perennial thirst for human heart-blood. War-paint was his delight, and with its aid he was singularly successful in correcting his round and smiling face into a savage visage of revolting ferocity. Paint was his hobby and his pride, but alas! how often it happens one's deepest sorrow is in the midst of one's greatest joy--the deepest lake is the old crater on top of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were _not_ the sinister black beads of the wily Red-man, but a washed-out blue. His ragged, tow-coloured locks he could hide under wisps of horsehair, the paint itself redeemed his freckled skin, but there was no remedy for the white eyelashes and the pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sorrow to himself, however, for he knew that if the others got an inkling of his feelings on the subject his name would have been promptly changed to "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally horrible and un-Indian appellation.

XIV

The Quarrel

"Say, Yan, I saw a Blood-Robin this morning."

"That's a new one," said Yan, in a tone of doubt.

"Well, it's the purtiest bird in the country."

"What? A Humming-bird?"

"Na-aw-w-w. They ain't purty, only small."

"Well, that shows what you know," retorted Yan, "'for these exquisite winged gems are at once the most diminutive and brilliantly coloured of the whole feathered race.'" This phrase Yan had read some where and his overapt memory had seized on it.

"Pshaw!" said Sam. "Sounds like a book, but I'll bet I seen hundreds of Hummin'-birds round the Trumpet-vine and Bee-balm in the garden, an' they weren't a millionth part as purty as this. Why, it's just as red as blood, shines like fire and has black wings. The old Witch says the Indians call it a War-bird 'cause when it flew along the trail there was sure going to be war, which is like enough, fur they wuz at it all the hull time."

"Oh, I know," said Yan. "A Scarlet Tanager. Where did you see it?"

"Why, it came from the trees, then alighted on the highest pole of the teepee."

"Hope there isn't going to be any war there, Sam. I wish I had one to stuff."

"Tried to get him for you, sonny, spite of the Rules. Could 'a' done it, too, with a gun. Had a shy at him with an arrow an' I hain't been bird or arrow since. 'Twas my best arrow, too--old Sure-Death."

"Will ye give me the arrow if I kin find it?" said Guy.

"Now you bet I won't. What good'd that be to me?"

"Will you give me your chewin' gum?"

"No."

"Will you lend it to me?"

"Yep."

"Well, there's your old arrow," said Guy, pulling it from between the logs where it had fallen. "I seen it go there an' reckoned I'd lay low an' watch the progress of events, as Yan says," and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning the Indians in war-paint went off on a prowl.

They carried their bows and arrows, of course, and were fully alert, studying the trail at intervals and listening for "signs of the enemy."

Their moccasined feet gave forth no sound, and their keen eyes took in every leaf that stirred as their sinewy forms glided among the huge trunks of the primeval vegetation--at least, Yan's note-book said they did. They certainly went with very little noise, but they disturbed a small Hawk that flew from a Balsam-fir--a "Fire tree" they now called it, since they had discovered the wonderful properties of the wood.

Three arrows were shot after it and no harm done. Yan then looked into the tree and exclaimed:

"A nest."

"Looks to me like a fuzz-ball," said Guy.

"Guess not," replied Yan. "Didn't we scare the Hawk off?"

He was a good climber, quite the best of the three, and dropping his head-dress, coat, leggings and weapon, she shinned up the Balsam trunk, utterly regardless of the gum which hung in crystalline drops or easily burst bark-bladders on every part.

He was no sooner out of sight in the lower branches than Satan entered into Guy's small heart and prompted him thus:

"Le's play a joke on him an' clear out."

Sam's sense of humour beguiled him. They stuffed Yan's coat and pants with leaves and rubbish, put them properly together with the head-dress, then stuck one of his own arrows through the breast of the coat into the ground and ran away.

Meanwhile Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was only one of the fuzz-b.a.l.l.s so common on Fir trees. He called out to his comrades but got no reply, so came down. At first the ridiculous dummy seemed funny, then he found that his coat had been injured and the arrow broken. He called for his companions, but got no answer; again and again, without reply. He went to where they all had intended going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour.

They were not there. He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.

He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the runaways till he heard a voice saying "What's this?"

On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then beginning to read aloud:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird Thou art----"

But Yan s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of his hands.

"I'll bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.

Yan's face was burning with shame and anger. He had a poetic streak, and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product. The Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many similar. He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme. It was very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to the others was more than he could bear. Of course Guy came out and grinned, taking his cue from Sam. Then he remarked in colourless tones, as though announcing an item of general news, "They say there was a fearless-crested Injun shot in the woods to-day."

The morning's desertion left Yan in no mood for chaffing. He rightly attributed the discourtesy to Guy. Turning savagely toward him he said, meaningly:

"Now, no more of your sa.s.s, you dirty little sneak."

"I ain't talkin' to you," Guy snickered, and followed Sam into the teepee. There were low voices within for a time. Yan went over toward the dam and began to plug mud into some possible holes. Presently there was more snickering in the teepee, then Guy came out alone, struck a theatrical att.i.tude and began to recite to a tree above Yan's head:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird, Thou art but a blooming sing bird--"

But the mud was very handy and Yan hurled a ma.s.s that spattered Guy thoroughly and sent him giggling into the teepee.