Then, placing her water jar upon a large, flat rock, she approached the newcomer who had dismounted, having first assured himself that the pack of wolf-like dogs was not in evidence.
To his surprise the Indian maiden spoke in the English language and, without the least embarrassment held out her slim, dark hand as she said, “Welcome, Virginia’s friend. You have traveled far and are hungry. I am Winona and I will give you breakfast.”
Tom thanked her and, as she was about to lift the jar again to her head, he said with his frank, friendly smile, “I ought to offer to carry that, but I fear I could not manage it as skillfully as you do. Since it is without handles, it must be a difficult feat.”
Winona smiled up at him as they walked side by side; the Indian lad, whose name was Red Feather, having taken Tom’s horse to the corral.
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but we learn early and do not forget. Look yonder.”
Tom’s glance followed that of Winona and he saw a group of little Indian girls, the oldest not more than 10. They were coming from a mountain spring and each was balancing a water jar upon her head. The small girls gathered about gazing half shyly and half curiously at the newcomer, until Winona spoke a few words in a tone of gentle rebuke, then the little, wild, coyote-like creatures scattered and soon disappeared in different mud huts.
“What did you say to them, Winona?” Tom asked curiously.
The Indian girl’s smile was almost merry. “That it isn’t manners to stare at company,” was the reply. “For seven winters, as Virginia told you, I learned the white man’s way, and now I have a little class and teach what I learned. Here we are at my home. My father awaits to welcome you.”
Tom saw an old Indian squatted upon the mud porch, and about his jet-black hair was a band into which had been woven with garnet beads the emblem of the tribe.
“My father, Chief Grey Hawk, this is Tom, friend of Virginia.” The bronzed, wrinkled face had a kindly expression as the old man replied in his own tongue, offering hospitality.