His dark, sunburnt features flushed a deep red, as if all his blood had rushed to his face; while his eye wandered around the crowd, as if seeking a way to escape from so uncomfortable a situation. But finding himself completely hemmed in, and every eye fixed upon him, he said, as if with a desperate attempt at articulation: “My friends, I s'pose I'm to consider all you’ve said as meanin' complimentary, and so I’ll put up with't for onc't, but I gin ye the honor o' a white gintleman, I’d rayther hev a hull yellin' tribe o' the cussed red-nigger Wyandotts arter me, nor stand sich another white whoop on account of my own doin's. I'll fight Injens with the best feller amongst ye—but I can't stand to be made a show on.”