“I hope so, Henry.”
In a few minutes Henry brought up the venison, and Dave followed with the extra wood, and soon Mrs. Morris had a roaring fire with which to prepare the evening repast. There was, of course, no stove, only a rude brick oven, and the meat was placed on a spit to broil, the oven being used for the corn cakes and for other things the lady of the cabin wished to bake. From chains overhead hung a pot and an iron kettle with water, and also a smaller kettle in which Mrs. Morris brewed herself some tea. As the cooking progressed most of the smoke went up the broad chimney but some came into the kitchen, and the ceiling, where hung numerous things to dry, was covered with soot in consequence.
The table was bare of linen or oilcloth, but scrubbed to a snowy whiteness. Plates were laid for all, but at the place to be occupied by White Buffalo a short bench was drawn up, that the Indian chief might eat from the level of his lap should he prefer to do so. The knives and forks, the latter quite new, were of iron, and Joseph Morris, like many other old pioneers, preferred to use his pocket-knife when cutting food. Napkins there were none, but a bucket of water stood in a corner and above it was a towel hung on a cow-horn, for the use of anyone who wished to keep his fingers or mouth clean. And yet this cabin was furnished as well as those of thousands of other pioneers.
The supper was well under way when Joseph Morris appeared at the edge of the homestead clearing side by side with White Buffalo, who slackened his pace to a dignified walk when approaching the cabin. The Indian was of the tribe of Delawares, tall, thin, and as straight as an arrow. His eyes were black and bright, and his mouth showed a set of teeth as clean and polished as those of a wolf. His headgear consisted principally of white feathers, tipped with yellow to imitate gold, and over his shoulder he carried a small blanket of buffalo hide, dyed white with yellow spots, the spots being somewhat in the shape of wolves’ heads. This signified, in the Indian language, that he was White Buffalo, son of Yellow Wolf, a former powerful chief of the Delawares.
As the Indian came up Dave ran out to meet him and shake his hand. “I am very glad to see White Buffalo,” he said. “I hope you bring good news of my father,” and he pressed the red man’s hand warmly.
“How-how!” answered the Indian in return, meaning, “how do you do?” Then he looked at Dave steadily for a few seconds. “The white boy’s father was well when I left him, eight sleeps ago. He must still be well,” he went on.
“I am glad to hear that, White Buffalo. Did he find the spot he visited before?”
At this question a proud look came into the Indian’s face. “Yes, he found the spot, but not alone. White Buffalo was told how the place looked, and he hunted it up for the white boy’s father.”
“White Buffalo has brought a long letter from your father,” put in Joseph Morris. “I know you are impatient to read it, so you may do so before we have supper,” and he handed the communication to his nephew. Then he led the Indian into the cabin, where Mrs. Morris and the others greeted him as warmly as had Dave, for all but little Nell knew the old chief well and liked him.
The letter from James Morris was straight to the point and characteristic of the man, and ran, in part, as follows: