He showed his teeth at me, which I fancied was his mode of smiling.

But it was somewhat hideous, as his nose had been broken, and the unpleasant dent in it made horridly conspicuous by a gash of blood-red paint.
I buckled my belt and pack and picked up my rifle.

Captain Simpson shook hands with me.

At the same moment, the rifleman sent to our bush-hut to summon the Mohican returned with him.

And a finer sight I never saw; for the tall and magnificently formed Siwanois was in scarlet war-paint from crown to toe, oiled, shaven save for the lock, and crested with a single scarlet plume--and heaven knows where he got it, for it was not dyed, but natural.
His scarlet and white beaded sporran swung to his knees; his ankle moccasins were quilled and feathered in red and white; the Erie scalps hung from his girdle, hooped in red, and he bore only a light pack-slung, besides his rifle and short red blanket.
"Salute, O Sagamore! Roya-neh!" I said in a low voice, passing him.
He smiled, then his features became utterly blank, as one by one the eyes of the other Indians flashed on his for a moment, then shifted warily elsewhere.
I made a quick gesture, turned, and started, heading the file out into the darkness.
And as we advanced noiselessly and swung west into the Otsego road, I was aware of a shadow on my right--soft hands outstretched--a faint whisper as I kissed her tightening fingers.