"White Wolf is my father. I am Pawnee. I will talk no more," said Scar Head. "Let me alone."
After that nobody bothered him, although they all eyed him. Why did they tell him that he was white? Did he wish to be white? Why should he be white, or American, when the Pawnee were a great people who could fight even the Padoucah—the Comanches or Ietans as they were called. And if one were white instead of red, it would be better to be Spanish, for the Spanish were rich and powerful, and their king owned the country.
Yet—yet, Scar Head could not help but admit that these Americans bore themselves like warriors; this Pike must be a bold young chief, to come so far with so few men; and after all, perhaps the Americans might prove strong in medicine. The Osages and the two Pawnee-who-had-been-to-Wash'ton spoke well of the nation.
The medicine-man approached him and suddenly laid fingers upon his white patch, and pressed.
"Does that hurt?"
Scar Head tried not to wince, for hurt it did. He squirmed free.
"No."
The medicine-man might be putting an evil spell
