“I am his parent. I do not know anything more.” “You must give him up. He is not an Indian,” said Chief Pike. “He is a Pawnee. Why should I give him up?” argued Charakterik. “Because the great father wishes all captives to be given up. The Potawatomi had many captives from the Osage. They have been given up. There cannot be good feeling between people when they hold captives from each other. I ask you to send this boy down river. Two French traders are in your town now. You can send the boy with them.” “I will think upon what you say,” White Wolf replied. So Chief Pike left. “Why did you come in here to listen?” scolded White Wolf, of Scar Head. “You are making me trouble. Do you want to be sent away with those traders?” “No,” Scar Head admitted. For the two French traders were dark, dirty little men, not at all like the Americans. He preferred the Pawnees to those traders. But if he were an American, himself――――? An American the same as the Pike Americans! That sounded good. He could see that White Wolf was troubled; and the rest of the day he kept out of sight. Early in the morning the two French traders went away, but he had not been sent for. Chief Charakterik probably had matters of more importance to think about. The Americans were breaking camp. The Pawnee young men, urged by Iskatappe and Skidi, were painting for battle, while the women filled the quivers and sharpened the lance points, and cleaned the guns afresh. The sun mounted higher. A close watch was kept upon the American camp, plain in view up the Republican River. Shortly after noon the cry welled: “They are coming! Shall we let them pass?” “No! Kill them!” “See where they are going, first.” “Wait till they are in the village.” Nobody knew exactly what to do. The Americans were marching down, their horses together, their ranks formed, their guns ready; and they looked small beside the four hundred and more warriors of the Pawnees. It was a brave act. “They are not striking the village. They are going around,” Rich Man shouted. “We shall have to fight them in the open. That is bad.” The young warriors like Skidi ran to and fro, handling their bows and lances and guns. They waited for orders from White Wolf; but White Wolf only stood at the door of his lodge, with his arms folded, and said nothing as he watched the American column. Mungo-Meri Pike was smart. He acted like a war chief. He was marching around, far enough out so that if he were attacked the Pawnees could not hide behind their mud houses. Now to charge on those well-armed Americans, in the open, would cost many lives; and no Pawnee wished to be the first to fall.