was an element of weakness rather than strength to his friends, and
it was for that reason he had migrated west of the Mississippi.

The youthful warrior, seated in the stem of the canoe, gave no
evidence that he saw the stubby figure of the German lad who stepped
close to the water and hailed him by name. One powerful impulse of
the paddle sent the bark structure far up the bank, like the snout
of some aquatic monster plunging after the lad awaiting it.

Before it came to rest, Deerfoot sprang lightly ashore, and,
grasping the front of the boat, drew it still further from the
river, where it was not only safe against being swept away, but
could not be seen by any one passing in the neighborhood.

His next proceeding was to pick up his bow from the bottom of the
canoe, after which he was prepared to see that others were near him.
Turning about, he extended his hand to Otto with the smiling
greeting: "How do you do, my brother?"

The words were spoken with as perfect accentuation as Jack Carleton
could have used. Had the speaker been invisible, no one would have
believed him to be an Indian.

"I does vell," replied Otto, shaking his hand firmly. "Dis ish my
friend, Jack Carleton, dot I dinks a good deal of."

Dropping the hand of the German, Deerfoot took one step forward and
saluted the young Kentuckian in the same manner. He pressed his
hand warmly, and, with the same smile as before, said: