“They are many,” reported Shon-go-ton-go, or Big Horse, sub-chief of
the Otoes.
“How many?” asked We-ah-rush-hah, or Little Thief, the head chief.
“As many,” replied Big Horse, “as five times the fingers on two hands.”
“Wah!” gravely grunted the circle, where the chiefs and warriors
squatted in their blankets and buffalo robes.
For August, the Ripe Corn month, of 1804, had arrived to the Oto
Indians’ country in present Nebraska beyond the Missouri River; but
now at their buffalo-hunt camp north of the River Platte the chiefs of
the combined Oto and Missouri nations sat in solemn council instead of
chasing the buffalo.
Through a long time, or since the month when the buffalo begin to shed,
the air had been full of rumors. Five moons back, when the cottonwood
buds first swelled, down at the big white village of “San Loui’” there
had been a ceremony by which, according to the best word, all this
vast land watered by the Missouri River had changed white fathers.
The Spanish father’s flag had been hauled down, and a different flag
had been raised. Indians had been there and had seen; yes, Shawnees,
Saukies, Delawares, Osages――they had been there, and had seen. The
Spanish governor, whose name was Delassus, had made a speech, to the
white people. He had said: