"Mother," said I, "what is that smoke yonder?"
I pointed in the direction of Lac Qui Parle. She saw a dark column of smoke floating off in the horizon, its location being such, that there could be no doubt that it was at the Agency.
"There is a fire of some kind there," she said, while she shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed long and earnestly in that direction.
"The Indians are coming, Edward," she called to father; "they will be here in a few minutes!"
Suddenly, a splendid black horse came galloping from the woods, and with two or three powerful bounds, halted directly in front of me. As it did so, I saw that the bareback rider was a small girl, and she was our little Sioux friend, Chitto.
She made a striking picture, with her long, black hair streaming over her shoulders, and her dress fluttering in the wind.
"Why, Chitto," said I, in amazement, "where did you come from?"
"Must go—must go—must go!" she exclaimed, in great excitement. "Indian soon be here!"
So it seemed that, in the few weeks since she had been at our house, she had picked up enough of the English language to make herself understood.
"What do you mean?" asked mother, as she and I advanced to the side of the black steed upon which the little Sioux sat; "what are the Indians doing?"