"Is not this Charley's wife?" Mr. Armstrong asked, and the woman smiled and nodded her recognition.
"Where is your husband?" was the next question. "Charley no good," was the wife's frank reply; "gone hunting with white men."
This was a disappointment that Mr. Armstrong had not anticipated; he was not sure that he could find his way to the silver mine without Charley's help, but it was worth trying. The odor of the frying ham was appetizing, and the invitation to supper was promptly accepted.
"Are you Charley's son?" Mr. Armstrong asked of the young man, who presently brought in a foaming pail of milk, and assisted his mother and sister in waiting on their guests.
"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "and my name is Charley too—Charles Sumner."
Mr. Armstrong stared in astonishment. "Where did you learn to speak English so well?" he asked.
"At the Indian Industrial School at Carlisle, Pennsylvania."
"Then you are one of Captain Pratt's boys?"
"Yes, sir," and a smile lightened the somewhat stolid features. Mr. Armstrong did not believe in Eastern schools for Indians, and he asked, rather sarcastically, "And what did you learn when you were in the East—Latin and Theology?"
The boy shook his head. "I learned to work on the farm," he said, "and to read and write, and do a little arithmetic; and I learned some carpentry—enough to build this house, and make that table, and the cupboard and things."