Cooper was a soldier of wide experience, a veteran of the Civil War, and an Indian fighter of distinction. But his Lieutenant, a handsome young West Pointer named Livermore, interested me still more keenly, for he was a student of the sign language and had been at one time in command of an experimental troop of red "rookies." Like Major Stouch he was a broad-minded friend of all primitive peoples, and his experiences and stories were of the greatest value to me.
With the aid of Major Stouch I won the confidence of White Bull, Two Moon, Porcupine, American Horse and other of the principal Cheyennes, and one of the Agency policemen, a fine fellow called Wolf Voice, became my interpreter. Though half-Cheyenne and half-Assiniboin, he spoke English well, and manifested a marked sense of humor. He had served one summer as guide to Frederick Remington, and had some capital stories concerning him. "Remington fat man—too heavy on pony. Him 'fraid Injuns sure catch him," he said with a chuckle. "Him all-time carry box—take pictures. Him no warrior."
For two weeks I absorbed "material" at every pore, careless of other duties, thinking only of this world, avid for the truth, yet selecting my facts as every artist must, until, at last, measurably content I announced my intention to return to the railway. "We have tickets to Seattle," I said to Stouch, "and we must make use of them."
"I'm sorry to have you go," he replied, "but if you must go I'll send Wolf Voice with you as far as Custer."
We had no real need of a guide but I was glad to have Wolf Voice riding with me, for I had grown to like him and welcomed any opportunity for conversing with him. He was one of the few full-bloods who could speak English well enough to enjoy a joke.
As we were passing his little cabin, just at the edge of the Agency, he said, "Wait, I get you somesing."
In a few moments he returned, carrying a long eagle feather in his hand. This he handed to me, saying, "My little boy—him dead. Him carry in dance dis fedder. You my friend. You take him."
Major Stouch had told me of this boy, a handsome little fellow of only five years of age, who used to join most soberly and cunningly with the men in their ceremonial dances; and so when Wolf Voice said, "I give you dis fedder—you my friend. You Indian's friend," I was deeply moved.
"Wolf Voice, I shall keep this as a sign, a sign that we are friends."
He pointed toward a woman crouching over a fire in the corral, "You see him—my wife? Him cry—all time cry since him son die. Him no sleep in house. Sleep all time in tepee. Me no sleep in house. Spirit come, cry, woo-oo-oo in chimney. My boy spirit come,—cry—me 'fraid! My heart very sore."