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 paint. 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 
