Guy was not without pluck. He had kept up heart so far believing that the boys were "foolin'," but when he felt the awful charcoal line drawn to divide his scalp satisfactorily between these two inhuman, painted monsters, and when with a final "weet, weet, weet" of the knife on the stone the implacable Woodpecker approached and grabbed his tow locks in one hand, then he broke down and wept bitterly.
"Oh, please don't——Oh, Paw! Oh, Maw! Let me go this time an' I'll never do it again." What he would not do was not specified, but the evidence of surrender was complete.
"Hold on, Great Brother Chief," said Little Beaver. "It is the custom of the tribes to release or even to adopt such prisoners as have shown notable fortitude."
"Showed fortitude enough for six if it's the same thing as yellin'," said the Woodpecker, dropping into his own vernacular.
"Let us cut his bonds so that he may escape to his own people."
"Thar'd be more style to it if we left him thar overnight an' found next mornin' he had escaped somehow by himself," said the older Chief. The victim noted the improvement in his situation and now promised amid sobs to get them all the Birch bark they wanted—to do anything, if they would let him go. He would even steal for them the choicest products of his father's orchard.
Little Beaver drew his knife and cut bond after bond.
Woodpecker got his bow and arrow, remarking "Ugh, heap fun shoot him runnin'."
The last bark strip was cut. Guy needed no urging. He ran for the boundary fence in silence till he got over; then finding himself safe and unpursued, he rilled the air with threats and execrations. No part of his statement would do to print here.
After such a harrowing experience most boys would have avoided that swamp, but Guy knew Sam at school as a good-natured fellow. He began to think he had been unduly scared. He was impelled by several motives, a burning curiosity being, perhaps the most important. The result was that one day when the boys came to camp they saw Guy sneaking off. It was fun to capture him and drag him back. He was very sullen, and not so noisy as the other time, evidently less scared. The Chiefs talked of fire and torture and of ducking him in the pond without getting much response. Then they began to cross-examine 
the prisoner. He gave no answer. Why did he come to the camp? What was he doing—stealing? etc. He only looked sullen.
"Let's blindfold him and drive a Gyascutus down his back," said Yan in a hollow voice.
"Good idee," agreed Sam, not knowing any more than the prisoner what a Gyascutus was. Then he added, "just as well be merciful. It'll put him out o' pain."
It is the unknown that terrifies. The prisoner's soul was touched again. His mouth was trembling at the corners. He was breaking down when Yan followed it up: "Then why don't you tell us what you are doing here?"
He blubbered out, "I want to play Injun, too."
The boys broke down in another way. They had not had time to paint their faces, so that their expressions were very clear on this occasion.
Then Little Beaver arose and addressed the Council.
"Great Chiefs of the Sanger Nation: The last time we tortured and burned to death this prisoner, he created quite an impression. Never before has one of our prisoners shown so many different kinds of gifts. I vote to receive him into the Tribe."
The Woodpecker now arose and spoke:
"O wisest Chief but one in this Tribe, that's all right enough, but you know that no warrior can join us without first showing that he's good stuff and clear grit, all wool, and a cut above the average somehow. It hain't never been so. Now he's got to lick some Warrior of the Tribe. Kin you do that?"
"Nope."
"Or outrun one or outshoot him or something—or give us all a present. What kin you do?"
"I kin steal watermillyons, an' I kin see farder 'n any boy in school, an' I kin sneak to beat all creation. I watched you fellers lots of times from them bushes. I watched you buildin' that thar dam. I swum in it 'fore you did, an' I uster set an' smoke in your teepee when you wasn't thar, an' I heerd you talk the time you was fixin' up to steal our Birch bark."
"Don't seem to me like it all proves much fortitude. Have you got any presents for the oldest head Chief of the tribe?"
"I'll get you all the Birch bark you want. I can't git what you cut, coz me an' Paw burned that so you couldn't git it, but I'll git you lots more, an' maybe—I'll steal you a chicken once in awhile."
"His intentions are evidently honourable Let's take him in on sufferance," said Yan.
"All right," replied the head Chief, "he kin come in, but that don't spile my claim to that left half of his scalp down to that tuft of yellow moss on the scruff of his neck where the collar has wore off the dirt. I'm liable to call for it any time, an' the ear goes with it."
Guy wanted to treat this as a joke, but Sam's glittering eyes and inscrutable face were centered hungrily on that "yaller tuft" in a way that gave him the "creeps" again.
"Say, Yan—I mean Great Little Beaver—you know all about it, what kind o' stunts did they have to do to get into an Injun tribe, anyhow?"
"Different tribes do different ways, but the Sun Dance and the Fire Test are the most respectable and both terribly hard."
"Well, what did you do?" queried the Great Woodpecker.
"Both," said Yan grinning, as he remembered his sunburnt arms and shoulders.
"Quite sure?" said the older Chief in a tone of doubt.
"Yes, sir; and I bore it so well that every one there agreed that I was the best one in the Tribe," said Little Beaver, omitting to mention the fact that he was the only one in it. "I was unanimously named 'Howling Sunrise.'"
"Well, I want to be 'Howling Sunrise,'" piped Guy in his shrill voice.
"You? You don't know whether you can pass at all, you Yaller Mossback."
"Come, Mossy, which will you do?"
Guy's choice was to be sunburnt to the waist. He was burnt and freckled already to the shoulders, on arms as well as on neck, and his miserable cotton shirt so barely turned the sun's rays that he was elsewhere of a deep yellow tinge with an occasional constellation of freckles. Accordingly he danced about camp all one day with nothing on but his pants, and, of course, being so seasoned, he did not burn.
As the sun swung low the Chiefs assembled in Council.
The head Chief looked over the new Warrior, shook his head gravely and said emphatically: "Too green to burn. Your name is Sapwood."
Protest was in vain. "Sappy," he was and had to be until he won a better name. The peace pipe was smoked all round and he was proclaimed third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word War inserted by special request).
He was quite the most harmless member of the band and therefore took unusual pleasure in posing as the possessor of a perennial thirst for human heart-blood. War-paint was his delight, and with its aid he was singularly successful in correcting his round and smiling face into a savage visage of revolting ferocity. Paint was his hobby and his pride, but alas! how often it happens one's deepest sorrow is in the midst of one's greatest joy—the deepest lake is the old crater on top of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were not the sinister black beads of the wily Red-man, but a washed-out blue. His ragged, tow-coloured locks he could hide under wisps of horsehair, the paint itself redeemed his freckled skin, but there was no remedy for the white eyelashes and the pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sorrow to himself, however, for he knew that if the others got an inkling of his feelings on the subject his name would have been promptly changed to "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally horrible and un-Indian appellation.