There was a great deal of yelling “Bang! Bang!” and when the hay was pretty well flattened and the children swarming over him Roosevelt obligingly lay flat pretending to gasp and moan from a lethal wound. His acting was so realistic that Ethel began to cry.
“I don’t like being Spaniards,” she wailed. “I don’t want to hurt Father.”
He sat up, reaching for her. “I’m not hurt,” he comforted, “just slightly out of breath. That hay is dusty. Now everybody help. We’ll pile it up again.” He retrieved the pitchfork and set to work, flinging forkfuls of hay in the air while the children gathered up as much as they could hold.
They achieved a beautifully rounded stack that almost reached the rafters and instantly Kermit and Ethel flung themselves at it, squealing happily.
“Stop! You’ll tear it down,” yelled Ted, blinking as the last ray of sun through the shingles glinted off his spectacles. “I want it all round and pretty.”
“We’ll play Indians and this is the Bad Lands of Dakota,” said his father. “Ted and Kermit will be Indians and the girls and Archie and I will be the settlers hiding from them.”
“I want to be an Indian,” Archie protested. “I can yell loud.” He emitted a piercing whoop to prove it.
“Indians don’t yell,” said Ted, scornfully. “They creep out of ambush very stealthily.” He quoted triumphantly from the stories their father had read to them. “They like to surprise their victims.”
“When they’re on horseback they yell,” Roosevelt said. “But you’ll be prowling Indians. They know how to be still as mice. And twice as deadly.” He twined a spray of hay through Archie’s hair for a feather. Instantly Ted and Kermit had to have feathers too and tying knots in their short hair to hold a dry wisp of hay erect was a slow business.
“I wish we had some war paint,” said Ted, studying his brothers with grudging approval. “I could have used some of my water colors if I’d known we were going to play Indians.”