182 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 



Mike went about his business with alacrity. He 

 stripped the bloody blanket from the Indian he had 

 killed, as if it enveloped something requiring no respect. 

 He examined carefully the moccasons on the Indian's 

 feet, pronouncing them at one time Chickasas — at an- 

 other time, Shawnese. He stared at the livid face, but 

 could not recognize the style of paint. 



That the Indians were not strictly national in their 

 adornments, was certain, for they were examined by 

 practised eyes, that could have told the nation of the 

 dead, if such had been the case, as readily as a sailor 

 distinguishes a ship by its flag. Mike was evidently 

 puzzled ; and as he was about giving up his task as 

 hopeless, the dead body he was examining was turned 

 upon its side. Mike's eyes distended, as some of his 

 companions observed, " like a choked cat's," and became 

 riveted. 



He drew himself up in a half serious, and half comic 

 expression, and pointing at the back of the dead In- 

 dian's head, there was exhibited a dead warrior in his 

 paint, destitute of his scalp-lock — the small stump which 

 was only left, being stiffened with red j^ciint. Those 

 who could read Indian symbols learned a volume of 

 deadly resolve in what they saw. The body of Proud 

 Joe, was stiff and cold before them. 



The last and best shot of Mike Fink had cost a brave 

 man his life. The boatman so lately interred was evi- 

 dently taken in the moonlight by Proud Joe and his 



