“That is boy’s talk,” appealed Skidi. “Look at him! He is no Pawnee, as everybody knows. He is not even an Indian. Who can believe what he says? Are warriors to be ruled by a boy? I demand a council, on this horse――and I will attend to that piece of impudence when I catch him away from the lodge.” Chief Charakterik hesitated. Attracted by the loud voice of Skidi the village was gathering; Iskatappe had come, and Old Knife, and other leading men who were unfriendly to the Americans; and Scar Head felt small. Now Skidi had called for a council; and between the council and Skidi the red-haired soldier and he himself were likely to fare rather badly. Charakterik, too, looked angry. Only the soldier stood smiling, backed against the lodge doorway, his gun in his hands. But right in the midst of the crisis, somebody else arrived. It was Baroney, the interpreter for Chief Pike. “Go into the lodge,” ordered White Wolf, to Scar Head. “You have made bad work. I will talk with you later.” Scar Head went in, disgraced. Outside, the voices continued, with White Wolf, and Skidi, and Baroney doing most of the speaking, and Rich Man and Letalesha adding remarks. After a short time they all quit. White Wolf entered, with Baroney and the soldier. “You are going away,” he said. “You may get your yellow pony and make ready.” “Where am I going?” “With these two men, to the American camp. The horse matter is settled. The American chief has sent a present, for the horse. Everybody is satisfied. But you did a wrong thing, when you interfered in men’s affairs. Why did you do that?” “I like the Americans,” Scar Head stammered. “Yes,” replied White Wolf. “What Skidi said is true. You are not red, you are white, and they all know it. You can never be an Indian. Now you have lost friends. The Pawnee will always look at you sideways, and Skidi is likely to harm you. So I give you to the American chief, to be rid of you before you are hurt. He asked me to send you away. If I keep you it may mean trouble for me also. Get your horse. These two men are waiting.” His brain in a whirl, Scar Head hastened out, for his yellow pony. As he passed through the village, there were scowls and jeers, because now nobody respected him as the chief’s son; but he did not care. He was an American, and these Pawnees were no longer his people. So he tried to walk fast, like an American, and pay no attention to the black looks and the slurs. He rode back, on his pony. The two men were waiting, on their horses, with the other horse in tow. White Wolf’s lodge received him kindly. His brother, White Wolf’s real son, handed him a horn bow and otter-skin quiver of arrows. “They are for you. Do not forget your brother.” The old squaw put new beaded moccasins upon his feet. “They are for you. Do not forget your mother.” The young squaw clasped a silver bracelet upon his wrist. “It is for you. Do not forget your sister.”