The fire was stamped out and Dale’s body removed to one side. I asked them to cover the dead man with a blanket, which they readily did. Now Lost Sister returned, this time leading Patricia. I called to her in Shawnee:
“Bring the white girl here. Does she know her father is dead?”
“I told her. The men said he was killed by a white bullet,” was the sullen reply.
“Leave her with me and wash the black from his face,” I said.
She brought her charge to me. Patricia’s eyes were hot as if with fever. She dropped beside me and stared wildly. Then she began to remember and said:
“My father is dead, they tell me.”
“He is dead. He suffered none. It is as he wished. He could not escape. He is at peace.”
“Life is so terrible,” she mumbled. “Death is so peaceful. Death is so beautiful. Then one is so safe.”
She gave a little scream and collapsed with her head resting on my bound hands. But although her slender frame shook convulsively she shed no tears.
I tried to talk to her as I would to a little child. After a while she rose and her composure frightened me. She walked to her father. Lost Sister had removed the tell-tale black. The girl kneeled and kissed him and patted his hair. Then returning to me, she quietly said: