Little White Osage did not understand the words, but they were said
with a laugh. He could only stare.
Two, were these United States men. The one who had spoken was short
and broad and quick, like a bear. He had a lean freckled face and
shrewd twinkling grey eyes. He wore a blue shirt, and belted trousers,
and boots, and on his head a wide-brimmed black hat. Leaning upon a
long-barrelled flint-lock gun, he laughed.
The other man was younger――much younger, almost too young to take the
war path. He was smooth-faced and very blue-eyed. He wore a blue shirt,
too, and fringed buckskin trousers, and moccasins, and around his black
hair a red handkerchief, gaily tied.
But as his hair was black, he could not be one of the chiefs. The short
man’s hair was not black, but it was the color of wet sand――and so he
could not be one of the chiefs.
Now the young warrior spoke and his voice was sweet.
“Who are you, boy?”
This Little White Osage did understand. The words penetrated through as
from a distance. There had been a long time since he had heard such
words. His throat swelled to answer.
“Boy,” he stammered.
“I see. What boy? Oto?”
Little White Osage shook his head.
“Missouri?”
Little White Osage shook his head.
“’Maha?”
Little White Osage shook his head more vigorously.
“What tribe, then?”
Little White Osage struggled hard to reply in that language. But his
throat closed tight. The young warrior was so handsome and so kind,
and the broad warrior was so homely and so alert, and he himself was
so small and so full of hopes and fears, that he choked. He could not
speak at all.
“See what you can make out of him, Pat,” bade the young warrior. “He
seems afraid of me. But he understands English.”
“Faith, now,” drawled the bold warrior, “sure, mebbe he’s wan o’ them
Mandan Injuns, from up-river. Haven’t they the eyes an’ complexion same
as a white man?” And he addressed Little White Osage. “Mandan?”
Little White Osage again shook his head.
“Well, if you’re not Oto or Missouri or ’Maha or Mandan, who be ye? My
name’s Patrick Gass; what’s your name?”
The throat of Little White Osage swelled. He strove――and suddenly out
popped the word, long, long unused.
“Kerr.”
“What?”
“Kerr――white boy.”
“Holy saints!” exclaimed Patrick Gass, astonished. “Did you hear that,
George, lad? An’ sure he’s white, an’ by the name o’ him Irish! Ye’ll
find the Irish, wherever ye go. An’ what might be your first name, me
boy? Is it Pat, or Terry, or Mike?”
That was too much talk all at once, for Little White Osage. The man
called George helped him out.
“How can he understand your villainous brogue, Pat! Let me talk to
him.” And he invited, of Little White Osage: “Kerr, you say?”
Little White Osage nodded.
“You are white?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Oto.”
“Where are you going?”
A boldness seized upon Little White Osage.
“You,” he said. “Up big river――with ’Nited States.”
“Oho!” laughed Patrick Gass. “Another recruit, is it? Does your mother
say you might?”
Little White Osage shook his head. Somehow, a lump rose in his throat.
“Mother?” What was “mother?” That soft white woman, who away back 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.”
“Do you know where Kentucky is?”
Little White Osage shook his head.
“No.” But he pointed to the east. “There.”
“Where are your father and mother?”
“There,” and Little White Osage pointed to the sky.
“Do you know where St. Louis is?”
“There,” and he pointed south.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“There,” and he pointed north.
“When did you leave the Otoes?”
“Two days.”
“Why?”
“Me――white; you white. I ’Nited States.” And Little White Osage
stiffened proudly.
“Bedad, spoken like a good citizen,” approved Patrick Gass. “Faith,
George, lad, ’twould be a shame to return him to the Injuns――to them
oncivilized rascals. Can’t we smuggle him aboard? An’ then after we’re
all under way the two captains can do with him as they plaze.” His gray
eyes danced at the thought, and he scanned George questioningly.
George’s blue eyes were twinkling.
“I dare say that on our way up river we’ll meet more traders coming
down, and he can be sent to St. Louis that way. But we’re liable to be
in a scrape, Pat, if we’re found out.”
“What’s an Irishman without a scrape?” laughed Pat “Listen, now,” he
bade, to Little White Osage, who had been attending very keenly.
“After dusk ye slip aboard the big boat. Understand?”
Little White Osage nodded. They had planned something good for him, and
he was willing to agree to whatever it was.
“Slip aboard the big boat,” and Pat pointed and signed, to make plain,
“an’ hide yourself away for’d down among the supplies. Kape quiet till
after the council, or the Otoes’ll get ye. I’ll be findin’ ye an’
passin’ ye a bit to ate. An’ when we’re a-sailin’ up the big river
wance more, then ye’ll have to face the captains, an’ what they’ll say
I dunno, but I’ll bet my hat that Cap’n Clark’ll talk the heart o’
Cap’n Lewis, who’s an officer an’ a gintleman, into lettin’ ye stay if
there’s proof ye have no-wheres else to go.” And Patrick Gass chuckled.
“Sure, they can’t set ye afoot on the prairie.”
There were too many strange words in this speech, but Little White
Osage caught the import.
“I hide,” he said, obediently. “In big boat.”
“Right-o!” encouraged George. “And if you’re found, stand up for
yourself.”
“No tell,” blurted Little White Osage. “Talk to ’Nited States chiefs.
No tell.”
“B’jabbers, there’s pluck!” approved Patrick Gass. “Now, we be goin’ to
take some o’ this meat back wid us, but we’ll lave you enough to chew
on. You have plenty fire. ’Twas only for signal to the Injuns to come
in to council. We had no thought o’ burnin’ annywan, ’specially a boy.
No, or of burnin’ me own coat, nayther, till I see the wind changin’.”
He and George rapidly made up a parcel of the meat, blackened and
charred though the hunks were. “But we cooked our supper by it. Goodbye
to ye. Chance be we’ll see ye later.” With airy wave of hand he trudged
away.
“His name is Patrick Gass. My name is George Shannon,” emphasized
George, lingering a moment. “Yours is Peter Kerr. All right, Peter.
Watch out for the Otoes, that they don’t spy you when you come in after
dark.”
“I come,” answered Peter, carefully. “Oto no catch.”
Away they hastened, toward the river. Standing stock-still, Peter
watched them go. Good men they were. They were white; he was white.
They were ’Nited States; he was to be ’Nited States, too.
He did not pause to eat now. He grabbed a chunk of the buffalo meat
left for him, and trotted for the nearest sand-hill. The fire had
burned before him, and the earth was still warm, but the sand-hills
were untouched.
He drank, at last, from a branch of the Omaha Creek; and among the
sand-hills he stayed all day.
In the afternoon he heard, from off toward the United States camp at
the river, a rumble like thunder. It was the big gun! At dusk he saw
a glow redly lighting the eastern horizon over the river. Maybe the
United States were having a war-dance. At any rate, the man named Pat
had told him to come; this seemed to be the best time; and, guided by
the glow, he hurried for the river.
When he had struck the river well above the camp, the boats and the
beach were ruddy. People had gathered about a huge fire. They were
making music and dancing; and some were white men and others were
Indians: Otoes! Chief Little Thief had arrived.
Somewhat fearing, but very determined, Peter cautiously waded out into
the water, and from waist-deep slipping into the current silently swam
down, down, outside the edge of the firelight, until obliquing in he
might use the big boat as a shield. With his hand he felt along it;
encountered a rope stretched taut from boat to water. Wah! Or――hoorah,
he meant.
As neatly as a cat he swarmed up the rope and hoisted himself over the
gunwale. Sprawling in, he dropped flat, to cower in the shadow of the
mast. A dark figure, with a gun, had seen him――was making for him, from
down the deck.
“Hist, Peter!” huskily spoke a voice. “’Tis Pat. Ye’re all right. Stay
where ye are, now!”
Yes, except for Pat, the sentry, all the big boat was deserted.
There was a great time ashore. Crouched panting and dripping, Peter
witnessed, from behind the mast. The shore was bright, the figures
plainly outlined. There were the two white chiefs. Of this he was
certain. They had on their heads the queer hats; they wore long tight
blue shirts that glittered with ornaments; they carried the long
knives, in sheathes at their sides; the one was the chief with the
yellow hair, and the other was the chief with the red hair.
The ’Nited States were giving a feast and dance, evidently. Two of them
were making music by drawing a stick across a box held to their chins;
and the others, and the Indians, sat in a circle, around the fire,
watching the dances.
It was now the turn of the Otoes, for they sprang up, and into the
centre, to dance. Peter knew them, one by one: Head Chief Little Thief,
Big Horse, Crow’s Head, Black Cat, Iron Eyes, Bix Ox, Brave Man, and
Big Blue Eyes――all Otoes except Crow’s Head and Black Cat, who were
Missouris.
They danced. It was the Oto Buffalo Dance. The ’Nited States warriors
cheered――and on a sudden cheered louder and clapped their hands
together, for into the centre had leaped a new figure, to dance by
himself.
He was the black medicine man!
His eyes rolled white; his teeth were white; but all the rest of him
was black――and he was very large. Assuredly, the ’Nited States must be
a great and powerful nation, with such medicine men, decided little
Peter, watching.
Along the deck Patrick Gass hissed and beckoned.
“Here,” he bade. Peter scurried to him. “Get down in for’d,” and Pat
pointed to the open door of the forecastle or wooden house that had
been built in the bows, under a higher deck. “Stow yourself away an’
kape quiet. Ye’ll find a place.”
Peter darted in. It was a room lined with beds in tiers from floor
to ceiling: the white warriors’ sleeping-room. Clothing was hanging
against the far end; down the centre was a narrow table. Like a cat
again, Peter sprang upon the table, scrambled into the highest of the
bunks on this side, and came to the far-end wall. The wall did not
meet the roof; it was a bulkhead partition dividing off the room from
the remainder of the bows. Peter thrust his arm in over the top, and
could feel, there beyond, a solid bale on a level with the bunk. He
wriggled in over, landed cautiously, explored with hands and feet, in
the darkness――and stretched out in a space that had been left between
the ballast of extra supplies and the deck above. Good!
That warm August night the “’Nited States” men of Captains Lewis and
Clark slept on the sand, in the open air, by the river; and in the
tent of the captains slept Chief Little Thief. But Patrick Gass, when
relieved from guard duty, slept in the forecastle, near Peter――that
being, as he yawned, “more convanient.”