“Ho! Ho! They say a chief runs back whipped from a red path. They say he throws away his warriors like a foolish man. Has a wolf stepped over his gun and spoiled his medicine? His young men break away and bring two scalps. Where are the scalps Little Beaver has taken?” The chief stared at him ferociously. A man near-by reached forward and struck him across the mouth. Bryant philosophically remarked: “Well, it didn’t work that time. Mebbe next time.” A man brought water in a kettle and held it up for Knight to drink, but gave the old man none. The latter mused: “Still treating you like a brother. But wait.” “I’ll not wait. I’ll try to escape the first time my hands and feet are untied,” muttered the Virginian. Because of their two wounded men and the loot taken from two cabins on the Sandy the band covered not more than a dozen miles a day. During the three days they traveled up Symmes Creek Bryant was loaded with plunder while Knight was compelled to carry nothing. He gladly would have shouldered the old man’s burden, but the later explained: “Best this way. If you git a glimmer of a chance to scoot you’ll need all your strength. I couldn’t make a race of it if I had half a mile start. I’ve lived my years an’ I’ve sent a sizable number of them on ahead of me.” He paused and lifted his head the better to watch two men busy with something on the opposite side of the small fire. Then he was whispering, “They’re fixing black paint.” “Black paint!” gasped Knight. “You said I’d be painted black.” “Not yet. They’ll keep you to show at the village. Got to make some showing to offset the men he’s lost. The women folks would be mad if a prisoner wasn’t fetched in. Here they come. Keep a bold face.” Two men briskly advanced bearing a bowl taken from some settler’s cabin. This was filled with a rough paste made from charcoal and water. The other Wyandots gathered around to witness the ceremony. A man released Bryant’s legs and jerked him roughly to his feet. The old man belligerently demanded: “Are you women to be afraid of a man about to talk with ghosts? Untie my hands. You are young and foolish men. You do not know how to paint a man who will do you great honor by the way he will die. Are you afraid?” The Indians approved of this sturdy bearing. He was old, just a shell of a man, but his heart was strong. Little Beaver said: “He will die very brave. Let him paint himself.” His wrist thongs were unfastened and his hunting-shirt was removed. He rubbed his hands and arms briskly to stimulate circulation. One young man stood behind him and the man holding the dish was before him. With much deliberation he took the fragment of pounded bark, serving as a brush, and began smearing the mixture over his scrawny chest. Little Beaver looked on approvingly. Wild of gaze, Knight watched the old man calmly decorate himself for the fire. Bryant slowly drew a spiral and informed the interested watchers: