"Red Feather, him always put me with squaw that know English—that been to school on the reservation. Never let me learn talk like the Indians. Him always say some day take me to my own people. But never said 'BIG HAIR.'"
"Did he tell you your mother died two years ago?"
"Yes—father, him dead, too. Both died in the plains. Father was shot by robbers. Mother was left in big wagon—you bury her near this mountain."
"Oh, ho! So your father was killed at the same time your mother was, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well—all right. And now you got nobody but me to look after you—but you don't need no more; as long as I'm able to be up and about, nothing is going to hurt you. Just you tell me what you want, and it'll be did."
"Want to be ALL like white people; want to be just like mother."
"Well, I'll teach you as fur up as I've been myself. Your style of talk ain't correct, but it was the best Red Feather could do by you. Him and you lay down your words like stepping-stones for your thoughts to step over; but just listen at me, how smooth and fine-textured my language is, with no breaks or crevices from the beginning of my periods to where my voice steps down to start on a lower ledge. That's the way white people talks, not that they got more to say than Injuns, but they fills in, and embodies everything, like filling up cabin-walls with mud. I'll take you by the hand right from where Red Feather left you, and carry you up the heights."
She examined him dubiously: "You know how?"
"I ain't no bell-wether in the paths of learning, honey, but Red Feather is some miles behind me. What's your name?"