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.