After sitting there for a little while, to Jack's great astonishment the boy suddenly said: "How you like it here?"
"Why—why!" stammered Jack, "first class. But what makes you talk English?"
"Oh," said the boy, "I talk English all right. I was raised with white people in Benton. I have been to school four or five years, and I can read and write pretty good. My name's Joe; Bloodman, they call me in Piegan."
"Well," said Jack, "I'm mighty glad to know you; glad to find anybody here in the camp that I can talk to besides Hugh and old John Monroe."
"Oh," said Joe, "there's quite a few people in this camp that can talk some English; there'll be more when they've all moved in. There's some white men here that have Indian wives, and some of their children can talk English pretty good, too."
"Yes," said Jack, "Hugh told me about that; but I haven't seen anybody yet that seemed to be able to talk to me."
"Well," said Joe, "that's a fact. A good many of 'em don't like to talk English, and I'll tell you why; because they're afraid that they'll make mistakes, and then maybe you'd laugh at 'em."
"Great Scott!" said Jack, "there wouldn't be any sense in that. I might just as well never try to learn anything about living here in the camp for fear that somebody would laugh at me. But say, ain't it great that you can talk English. Do you live here?"
"Yes," said Joe, "I live right here. The man that raised me died last year, and his wife went off to the States. She told me she'd take me along if I wanted to go, but I told her I'd rather stay in this country. So I came back to the camp, and now I live here with my uncle. He's Fox Eye, one of the chiefs of the Fat Roaster band. Say," he added, "where did you come from?"