The medicine-man, Doctor Robinson, was popular, but he was not a chief. The men did not seem to fear him. He rode well and shot well. Lieutenant Pike and he rode and hunted together, while the second chief, Lieutenant Wilkinson, stayed with the men. Scar Head also had grown not to fear the medicine-man, who frequently asked him about his white spot and where he had come from, to the Utahs and Pawnees, and tried to teach him American words. Some of the American words were hard and some easy. On some days they were harder than on other days; and again Scar Head suddenly spoke words that he didn’t know at all――they arrived to him of themselves. That was odd. He was getting to be an American; he felt as though he had been an American in his heart all the time, but that his heart had been shut up. The times when his spot throbbed and burned were the times when he knew the fewest words. The men had given him a new name. His Pawnee name was not good enough for them. The new name was “Stub.” John Sparks had told him of it, first, by saying it. “Hello, Stub? How goes it, Stub?” And the other men laughed and repeated: “Here, Stub.” “Hello, Stub!” “You’re the boy, Stub.” “What is ‘Stub’?” he asked, of the medicine-man, Doctor Robinson. “It is ‘short,’ ‘cut off,’ coupé,” carefully explained the medicine-man. “They like you. It is a good name, because you are small.” “American?” “Yes.” “Sure, an’ we mane no harm, doctor, sir,” called “Tom,” whose other name was Dougherty. “If sawed-off he is, a rale little man he is, too.” And while Scar Head (whose other name was now “Stub,” in American language) did not understand all those words, he knew that they were kindly spoken. So his name pleased him. John Brown was the man who rode with him to look for Sparks. They took the back trail and rode for a long time. Everything was wet from the rains. Sparks must have spent a miserable night, alone on the prairie, without food or fire. Finally they saw him, far ahead, hobbling slowly, trying to catch up with the march. He grinned when they met him, and shouted cheerfully, although he made faces. “Mornin’ to ye, boys. ’Rah for Stub!” “H’lo, John. No walk; ride. My pony.” And Stub sprang off. “Can you ride, John?” asked John Brown. “Sure, I’ll try. At this rate I dunno whether I’m goin’ or comin’. You’ll all be to the mountains an’ back ag’in before I ever ketch up. Hey, Stub?” But Stub might only smile. With many grunts and awkward movements John Sparks climbed aboard the yellow pony. It was near noon when they brought him into the camp. Lieutenant Pike and Doctor Robinson had been hunting for the Spanish trail, again, but had not found it. There was talk of a large river, the Arkansaw, somewhere southward yet. The Americans were anxious to reach the river, which would guide them; but they had lost the trail to it.