They wandered and hunted here, drifting slowly to the eastward, until
they came upon a great encampment of the fierce and warlike nation,
known as the Shawnees. The Shawnees were in their war paint and were
singing warlike songs. It was evident to the most casual visitor that
they were going forth to do battle.
It was late in the afternoon when Henry, Black Cloud and two others came
upon this encampment. His own band had pitched its lodges some miles
behind, but the kinship of the forest and the peace between them, made
the four the guests of the Shawnees as long as they chose to stay.
At least a thousand warriors were in all the hideous varieties of war
paint, and the scene, in the waning light, was weird and ominous even to
Henry. The war songs in their very monotony were chilling, and full of
ferocity, and in all the thousand faces there was not one that shone
with the light of kindness and mercy.
Long glances were cast at Henry, but even their keen eyes failed to
notice that he was not an Indian, and he stood watching them, his face
impassive, but his interest aroused. A dozen warriors naked to the waist
and hideously painted were singing a war song, while they capered and
jumped to its unrhythmic tune.
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