"I found it."
"Whose horse is it?"
"It belongs to the American chief. It is the one he lost."
"How do you know?"
"I know," said Scar Head. "It was hidden, but I went and got it."
"You lie! You are a meddler!" Skidi stormed, furious. "Wait till I lay my hands on you."
"I do not lie. I brought the horse, and I can show where I found it," Scar Head answered.
"That is boy's talk," appealed Skidi. "Look at him! He is no Pawnee, as everybody knows. He is not even an Indian. Who can believe what he says? Are warriors to be ruled by a boy? I demand a council, on this horse—and I will attend to that piece of impudence when I catch him away from the lodge."
Chief Charakterik hesitated. Attracted by the loud voice of Skidi the village was gathering; Iskatappe had come, and Old Knife, and other leading men who were unfriendly to the Americans; and Scar Head felt small. Now Skidi had called for a council; and between the council and Skidi the red-haired soldier and he himself were likely to fare rather badly. Charakterik, too, looked angry. Only
