The bayou was a kind of elbow of the Looking-glass River that flows into the main river just below town. When the railroad came along they built right across that elbow, shutting it off into a kind of a lake shaped like a letter U, and the banks was mostly swampy and all overgrown with underbrush. Seems like the pickerel was fond of hanging around in there, and folks who knew how to fish was always hauling regular whoppers out of there. There was places where the banks were high and where you could take a long pole and fish right from the shore. We sort of figured Tod would pick out one of those places if he was there, on account of its being less work than to row out a boat. Mark was always thinking ahead a little, so what does he do but go past his house and stop for a lunch. He wasn’t going to be caught out in the country somewheres without anything to eat, not if he knew himself. Then we started off for the bayou, which wasn’t far. We started in at the railroad on one end and just skirted the shore, keeping our eyes open every inch of the way, and, sure enough, along about half-way around we saw a bamboo fish-pole sticking out. “Injuns,” says Mark Tidd. “Where?” says I. “Everywhere. All around us. They’re a r-r-raidin’ party gittin’ ready to bust out on the town and scalp everybody and carry off the wimmin and children. We got to creep up on ’em and f-f-find out their plans and warn Wicksville.” “I don’t understand no Injun language,” says I. “I do,” says he. “I learned ’most all the Injun languages when I was a captive among them some time back.” “Um!” says I. “I forgot about that. Come to think of it, I was one of them captives, too. I kin speak Choctaw and Hog Latin and a lot of them languages myself.” “Good!” says he. “Now cautious if you want to keep any hair g-g-growin’ on your head.” We did pretty good. In ten minutes we was lying not a hundred foot from Tod Nodder, and he hadn’t the least idea in the world that anybody was within a mile of him. At that distance we could whisper without any danger, so Mark leans over and says to me: “Biggest war p-p-party I ever see,” says he. “They mean b-business. Look at that war-paint.” Tod was some smeared up, but most folks would have called it dirt. I didn’t care, though. If Mark Tidd wanted it to be war-paint, why, war-paint it was. We just laid there and watched and calc’lated how we could save Wicksville from all those savages who weren’t there, and we told each other what doggone brave and noble things we was going to do till I got so I thought I was quite a fellow and Mark was all swelled up like a toad that’s eaten too many flies. All at once Mark grabbed my arm and says, “_Look!_”