"He stole down from above, Captain," said the sick man.
"How are you, Sergeant? Any better?"
"No, sir. I'm awful weak, sir."
"Much pain?"
"Yes, sir. I've been suffering terribly."
"I'm sorry, my man. We'll do all we can for you." Now the chief spoke to Peter. "Who are you? How'd you come here?" His voice was stern and quick.
"I hide," said Peter.
"Where?"
Peter pointed.
"Who brought you here?"
"I come. Night. Swim down river. Hide." For Peter had no notion of telling on Patrick Gass and George Shannon.
"Humph! You did!" And the chief with the red hair grunted. "Ran away, eh? Who was your chief?"
"We-ah-rush-hah. First Osage, then Oto, but me white."
"Where's your mother?"
Peter shook his head.
"Where's your father?"
Peter shook his head.
"Here's a pretty pickle," muttered the chief with the red hair—and Peter wondered what he meant. "Well, you come along with me." And he added, to
