Evidently the American chief did not understand Pawnee, for he looked a little puzzled. “Do you speak French?” he demanded. “Yes, little,” answered Scar Head. “You are not an Indian?” “Yes, Pawnee,” grunted Scar Head. “You don’t look like a Pawnee.” “Pawnee,” Scar Head insisted, as he had been ordered always to do, by Charakterik. “Who is your father?” “White Wolf.” “Who was your mother?” “Don’t know.” “Were you born here?” “Don’t know.” “Do you speak English?” “No.” “How old are you?” Scar Head held up the fingers of his two hands; that was as nearly as he could guess. It didn’t matter, anyway. The American chief hailed the medicine-man in the American language. Scar Head did not understand, but the words were: “Doctor, I don’t believe this is an Indian boy at all.” Now the medicine-man (he was a young man, with brown hair on his face) reined back to ride upon Scar Head’s other side. He spoke, in French. “Are you an Indian?” “Yes.” “What nation?” “Pawnee.” “Where did the Pawnee get you?” “From Utahs.” “Chief Charakterik is not your father, then?” “Yes. My father.” “Your mother a Utah?” “Don’t know.” “How long has Charakterik been your father?” The medicine-man was smart. “Two year.” “I see. The Utahs probably traded him to the Pawnees, doctor,” spoke the chief Mungo-Meri Pike, across, in the language that Scar Head did not understand. “And Charakterik adopted him.” “The Utahs must have got him somewhere. He’s no Indian,” replied the medicine-man, in those strange words. “He’s not Spanish, either.” And he asked, in French, of Scar Head: “You speak Spanish?” “A little.” “You speak Utah?” Scar Head nodded. He was growing tired of these questionings. The medicine-man kept eyeing him. “Where did you get this?” And he tapped his own head, in sign of the patch of white hair. “My name,” answered Scar Head. “What made it?” “Don’t know.” “Did the Utahs capture you?” “Don’t know.” “Where were you before the Utahs had you?” “Don’t know.” “He may not be all Indian, but he’s enough Indian so he won’t tell what he doesn’t want to tell,” laughed the American chief, in the strange words. The medicine-man shrugged his shoulders. “I’d like to take him along with us and find out more about him. By the shape of his head he’s white blood.” The three jogged on in silence. Scar Head wondered what they had said, with those words, but he was glad to be let alone. White Wolf had forbidden him to talk with strangers. Nevertheless he glanced now and then at the two Americans. He felt more friendly toward them. They seemed kind. The American camp was not far. It had guards stationed, who saluted the American chief when he passed. At his lodge fire he halted; a head warrior took Scar Head’s pony, with the corn; other warriors took the two horses, to lead them away. The American second chief was here. While he and Chief Mungo-Meri Pike talked, Scar Head sat by the fire and looked around, to see what was going on.