“Where are you going?”
A boldness seized upon Little White Osage.
“You,” he said. “Up big river—with ’Nited States.”
“Oho!” laughed Patrick Gass. “Another recruit, is it? Does your mother say you might?”
Little White Osage shook his head. Somehow, a lump rose in his throat. “Mother?” What was “mother?” That soft white woman, who away back in the Osage village had hugged him and kissed him and taught him these words which thronged inside him, must have been “mother.”
“No mother. No f-f-father.” He carefully felt his way. “Ken—Kentucky. Peter—Peter Kerr. Go up river with ’Nited States.” And he managed another word. “Please.”
“An’ we set the prairie afire to call in the Injuns, an’ here’s what we caught,” ejaculated Patrick Gass. “Peter Kerr, be it? Likely that was his father’s name, an’ he’s young Peter. Well, what’ll we do with him?”
“We can take him back to the boats with us, I suppose,” mused George. “But as for his going on with the expedition, Pat, I don’t know what the captains would say, or the Otoes, either. He’s from the Otoes, he claims.”
“Ah, sure ain’t he an Irishman from Kentucky?” reminded Pat. “An’ ain’t we Irish, too? Mebbe we can buy the young spalpeen, for a trifle o’ paint an’ powder.”
George didn’t think so.