At night now, when we camped, we always corralled the wagons. They were arranged in a big circle, the tongue of each wagon run under the rear of the wagon ahead to form a stockade. The tents were set up inside the circle, and after the horses had grazed as long as possible, they were tied to the wagon wheels, outside usually; but if there seemed any danger, inside of the corral. With guards set outside, we felt safe.

After we had finished breakfast one morning, Mother was packing our lunch while Tom and Chris rolled up the tent. She had baked a big pan of biscuits which were to be the major portion of our noon meal that day. I was supposed to be putting away the dishes but was too busy watching a big Indian to work very fast.

He was going from tent to tent saying something to each group. Wherever he went he was received with a shake of the head and an evident refusal of some request. His face was growing more and more sullen. We had camped that night a little apart from the rest of the wagons and our party was the last to be approached. He had been refused by every other family, all of whom had been too busy to give him time or attention.

As he came to us he pointed to Mother's biscuits and said, "How! Indian hungry."

"Give him his breakfast, Emily," Father said, and Mother filled a tin plate with the biscuits and set a plate of leftover hotcakes and a can of sorghum molasses on the oilcloth that was still spread on the ground for a tablecloth.

After pouring molasses over the biscuits, he squatted on the ground with the plate in his hand and began to eat, while we children stood around and watched him. Though he ate with his fingers, we were surprised to see how nicely he did it. He wasn't mussy, but such an amount as he ate! We watched him with wonder. He finished the biscuits and the pile of hot cakes, then pointed to the pan of bread, which Mother, thinking he might want more, had not put away. She set the pan before him and he ate and ate until all the bread for lunch, a lunch for ten people, too, was gone except two biscuits. Then he looked at Mother and pointed at the biscuits.

"Papoose hungry," he said. "Take to papoose?"

Mother said, "Yes, take it if you want to."

He broke open a biscuit, poured molasses over it, opened the front of his dirty buckskin shirt and thrust it inside.

Then he pointed to the other biscuit and said, "Squaw hungry."

"Yes," Mother nodded. "Take it too." A second molasses-covered biscuit went inside his shirt against his brown body.

Then he rose, gave a pull at his buckskin trousers and said, "Thank you. Good."

He looked around for Father, who was now waiting for him to go so we could follow the train, which was beginning to move away. He shook Father's hand and Mother's, then looked around at us children.

"Your papooses?" he asked. "Indian see all?"

Father said, "Yes, they are all mine," and pointed us out to him, including Florence as his little girl. He shook us all by the hands, even little Charlie. He looked at us all sharply again as if he meant to remember us. Once more he said, "Thank you. Good," and went to where a pony was grazing.

We had to build a fire at noon that day and we laughed a good deal about our short rations and the delicious lunch the squaw and papoose were to have. We didn't envy them those biscuits.

Little did we dream, however, of the importance to us of having gained the favor of that dirty Sioux warrior. It was not the last time we were to see him.