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 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----”