Good excuse had these men for not knowing him as his transformation was complete! He stood before them not a white man, but an Indian warrior, a prince of savages.

His hair was drawn up in the defiant scalp lock, his face bore the war paint in all its variations and violent contrast of colors, the dark-green hunting shirt and leggings with their beaded decorations were gone, and in their place a red Indian blanket was wrapped around him, drooping in its graceful folds like a Roman toga.
His figure, erect in the moonlight, nearly a head above the others, had a certain savage majesty, and they gazed upon him in silence.

He seemed to know what they felt and his eyes gleamed with pride out of his darkly painted face.

He laughed again a low laugh, not like that of the white man, but the almost inaudible chuckle of the Indian.
"It had to be," he said, glancing down at his garb though not with shame.

"To do what I wished to do, it was necessary to pass as an Indian, at least between times, and, as all the Shawnees do not know each other, this helped." "It was you who shot the Indians in the tree; I knew it from the first," said the voice of the guide, Ross, over their shoulders.