He came out, unshaven, and sweeping an old paint-daubed hat from his head with a low bow. "It's been years since I saw a human being," he exclaimed. "You'll want grub."
Building a cabin, learning to prepare his own meals, getting accustomed to solitude were new experiences for the cartoonist from Milwaukee.
"Not many courses," he said, as he dragged the spuds out from under the bunk; "just two—b'iled potatoes, first course; flapjacks and 'lasses, second course; and coffee."
"You've discovered the Indians," we said, pointing to the canvas.
The Indians, yes, but they hadn't been much of a cure for loneliness. What were we doing on the reservation?
We brought out the post-office petition and told him about the newspaper. I explained that I had filed on a claim on the reservation.
"I looked for the crepe on the door as we drove up," I told him.
"You have a claim on the reservation? To hell with the crepe!" he said in high spirits.
On the road home, seeing Imbert's elation, it occurred to me that I had never taken into consideration the fact that Imbert Miller lived near the borders of the reservation and that the "fence" would not separate him from Ida Mary now. How deeply she had weighed the question I did not know.
We sent in the post-office petition and the federal authorities promptly established a post office for the Lower Brulé on my homestead and appointed Ida Mary postmistress. She was the only woman ever to run a post office on an Indian reservation, the data gatherers said. The government named it Ammons.