He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it with a feather from the Indian's own tuft.

Then he stained his face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a powerful young warrior of a western nation.
He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the brush.
Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge of the swamp and dropped it in.

His object was not alone concealment, but burial as well.
He still felt sorry for the unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him until he sank completely from sight in the mire.

Then he turned away and traveled a straight course toward the great Indian camp.
He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the bright moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection.

By night, at least, it was certainly that of an Indian, and, summoning all his confidence, he continued upon his chosen and desperate task.
Henry knew that the chances were against him, even with his disguise, but he was bound to enter the Indian camp, and he was prepared to incur all risks and to endure all penalties.