The bishop said his name was Nichols, or something like that; then he added, “I see by your dress that you have been with the Indians.”
I told him that I had lived with them for a year or two.
He said that he had read in the papers about a little boy running away with the Indians, and he thought I might be that boy.
“Maybe I am,” I said.
“To what tribe do you belong?”
“Washakie’s tribe.”
“I have heard,” he said, “that Washakie is a chief among the Shoshones and that his tribe is friendly to the white people. What do you know about them?”
“Washakie’s band,” I replied, “are good Indians. I have heard the chief say many times that he was a friend to the people of Utah, that he had seen their big chief, who was a very good ‘tibo.’”
“What is that?” he asked.
“Oh, I forgot I was talking to white men,” I said; “‘tibo’ means friend.”