“Friend, I do not know you but you are welcome. Come in and eat.”
The old man entered and in due time Big Moggasen told his name and his errand and his fears.
To this White-hairs replied: “It is natural for you to feel so. Once I felt the same but the white man has not harmed me yet. My children have learned to speak his tongue and to write. They are happier than they were and that makes me happy. I do not understand the white people. They are strange. Their thoughts are not our thoughts but they are wonder-workers. I am in awe of them. They are wiser than the spirits. They do things which it is impossible for us to do, therefore I make friends with them. They have done me no harm. My children are fond of them and so I am content.”
All the evening the old men from the northern mountains sat arguing, questioning, shaking their heads. At last they said, “Very well, in the morning we will go to the Little Father and hear what he has to say. To us it now seems that these strange people have thrown dust in your eyes and that they are scheming to make pack-ponies of you.”
In the morning they drank again of the white man’s coffee with sweet in it and ate of the white man’s bread and it was all very seductive to the tongue. Then old White-hairs led them to the Little Father’s room.
The Little Father was a small man who wore bits of glass before his eyes. He was short-spoken and his voice was high and shrill but calm.
“What is it?” he said to White-hairs in the Tinné tongue.
“These are they from the mountains,” replied White-hairs. “This is Big Moggasen.”
The Little Father rose and held out his hand, “How is your health?”