“It was on the plain near where the White Mountain towers to the clouds.”
“Mount Rainier?”
“So the white men call it. It was five years ago.”
“How old were you then?”
Oneotah reckoned by “moons,” but Percy had no difficulty in estimating her age at that period to have been thirteen years.
“It was told to me that, when I grew old enough, I was to be the bride of Howlish Wampo.”
“There’s a name!” interrupted Cute, who had kept remarkably quiet for him; but the fact was, he was as much interested as Percy in Oneotah’s narration. “Who christened him I should like to know? You didn’t fancy Mr. Howlish Wampo, eh?”
“I shuddered whenever he looked at me.”
“I don’t wonder at that, considering your prospect of becoming Mrs. Howlish Wampo. Is he any relative to Wampum?”
“Be quiet!” cried Percy. “Your tongue is like a mill wheel when it once gets started.”