One more Indian story and I am done. In the summer of 1829, father traveled over the southern prairies of the state on foot and alone, to look for a new home. At Ann Arbor, on his way west, he heard of a notorious Indian robber, Shavehead, known as a dangerous customer to lone travelers. Not wishing, just then, to part with his scalp, he made a circuit of 30 miles or more to avoid meeting him. He was reported to have killed and scalped 90 or more white persons, and as being in his war paint, and wearing these scalps, at all times. Father was tired ere noon, and, secure in the thought that all danger was passed, seated himself on a fallen log and proceeded to eat his dinner of bread and cheese, and make himself comfortable for a noon-tide rest. He was delighted with the fresh woods and prairies, and gave himself up to air-castles, when he could make his home in this western paradise and have his family about him. Suddenly, in the midst of these reveries, a light hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up he was confronted by a tall, brawny, fierce looking Indian, in scalp-lock and paint, sharp, keen eyes, divided by a prominent, hawk's beak nose, looked down upon him in stern silence. Father, in describing it afterwards, never said he was scared, but admitted it was a "surprise party" to him, and that he instinctively thrust his hand into his pocket and grasped an old pistol, which would hardly kill at three paces under any circumstances. However it also flashed through his mind that if this bronzed old warrior had intended murder he could have committed it as easily with his wicked looking tomahawk as thus to have laid his hand upon his shoulder, so he smiled on Shavehead and offered his hand, and they shook, but with unbending sternness on the part of Shavehead. Then they sat down together on a log and proceeded to get acquainted as best they could, mostly by signs. Father took out his pipe and tobacco, divided the plug with Mr. Red-man, which pleased him very much, and thus they talked in pantomime with each other for an hour or more, when the interview ended by mutual consent. They again shook hands, this time more cordially, but yet no smile softened the face of old Shavehead. And they parted, the Indian silently melting into the forest, and father sturdily trudging along his trail towards the west, now and then glancing backward at the vacancy made by his strange visitor.