But to return to our war-path, and be just. The Fighting Nigger had no thought of using the life, liberty, and dearest affections thrown by the chances of war upon his mercy, excepting so far as to take his prisoner home with him as a trophy of victory; which done, then should he be allowed to return to his own people, bird-free, without the loss of a feather. As he had not killed the Indian, how could he without gross violation of the rules of civilized warfare take his scalp? And without scalps to show for proof, let him but dare blow his own trumpet, and he should be blazed throughout the land as a windy, lying braggart. Therefore, as neither party in question could quit that place without the scalp--the one having a natural right, the other a belligerent right to the same--expedient was it that the party who enjoyed but the natural right should be taken bodily to the settlements, there to appear as a living witness to that prowess in arms which had brought him under the conquering hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head. Now you can understand what the Fighting Nigger meant, when, in answer to his little master's "Let him go home to his mother," he had, with a snap of his finger and thumb, exclaimed in Anglo-Congo lingo, "I yi, my larky!" Accordingly, Burl gathered up all the weapons and accouterments of the vanquished foe, where they lay scattered about the top of the battle-hill, sticking the hatchets and knives about his middle and hanging the powder-horns and ammunition-pouches from his shoulders. The three Indians' rifles he tied together and gave to his prisoner to carry, a burden he would hardly have laid undivided on the wounded youth had he not foreseen that his little master, when weary of walking, must needs be getting upon his back from time to time to ride till rested. Then Betsy Grumbo being put again in biting order and shouldered, the little party started forward on their homeward tramp--the young Indian, at a sign from his captor, going on a little in advance, Grumbo coming on a little in the rear, while Burl and Bushie walked hand in hand between. The war-dog had regained his wonted grim self-satisfaction, as could be seen by the iron twist of his tail over the right leg, and by the peculiar hang of the lower lip at the corners as if he carried a big quid of tobacco in each side of his mouth. Nevertheless, he still maintained a wary watch over their red captive, whom he continued to regard with undiminished jealousy and distrust, and to whose living presence in their midst he seemed determined never to be reconciled. Gaining the foot of the hill by an easier route, though less direct than that by which the two giants had reached it, they found there the traces of blood, which, reddening the grass at short intervals, marked the turns made by Black Thunder's body after receiving the bullet sent after him from his own rifle. "Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian; and that was all.