in the Osage village had hugged him and kissed him and taught him these words which thronged inside him, must have been "mother."
"No mother. No f-f-father." He carefully felt his way. "Ken—Kentucky. Peter—Peter Kerr. Go up river with 'Nited States." And he managed another word. "Please."
"An' we set the prairie afire to call in the Injuns, an' here's what we caught," ejaculated Patrick Gass. "Peter Kerr, be it? Likely that was his father's name, an' he's young Peter. Well, what'll we do with him?"
"We can take him back to the boats with us, I suppose," mused George. "But as for his going on with the expedition, Pat, I don't know what the captains would say, or the Otoes, either. He's from the Otoes, he claims."
"Ah, sure ain't he an Irishman from Kentucky?" reminded Pat. "An' ain't we Irish, too? Mebbe we can buy the young spalpeen, for a trifle o' paint an' powder."
George didn't think so.
"I doubt if the Otoes would sell him. How long have you been with the Otoes, Peter?"
Little White Osage had been listening as hard as he could, trying to guess what these long speeches were about. That last question, to him, awakened an answer.
"Al-ways," he uttered, slowly. "First Osage, then Oto."
