Peter gladly obeyed. He was rather afraid of the handsome young Long Knife Chief, but he was not afraid of Patrick Gass—no, nor of the Red Hair.
When dressed in the clothes that Patrick found for him, Peter was a funny sight. There was a red flannel shirt—to Peter very beautiful, but twice enough for him, so that the sleeves were rolled to their elbows, and the neck dropped about his shoulders. And there was a pair of blue trousers, also twice enough for him, so that the legs were rolled to their knees, and the waist was drawn up about his chest, and the front doubled across where it was belted in.
"Niver you mind," quoth Patrick, while the 'Nited States men gazed on Peter and howled with merriment. "Sure, I'm a bit of a tailor an' if we can't fit you with cloth we'll fit you with leather. Let 'em laugh. Laughin's good for the stomick."
And Peter did not mind. These were white people's clothes, and he was proud to wear them, although they did seem queer.
The sun had passed the overhead. At some orders the barge was swung in for shore; the two smaller boats followed. Now would he be sent back, or left; or—what? Landing was made on the right-hand side, which was the country of the Iowas and of the Sioux: not a good place, Peter reflected, for him. But scarcely had the barge tied up, and Peter's heart was beating with anxiety, when Captain Clark hastily emerged from the forecastle; another soldier trod close behind.
