The poor
half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
"Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!" growled the savage, giving Loorey
another blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. The
bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women
murmured sympathetically.
"This's not a bit funny," muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly
to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that,
bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's,
and grasped the Indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made him
loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
"I stole the shirt--fun--joke," said Joe. "Scalp me if you want to
scalp anyone."
The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a
twist he slipped his arm from Joe's grasp.
"Big paleface heap fun--all squaw play," he said, scornfully. There
was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the
group.
"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," said Jake Wentz to Joe. "An
Indian never forgets an insult, and that's how he regarded your
joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his
pelts. He's a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!"
By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined
the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle
away.
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