"I especially want to see the older squaws who remember how things were done in the old days, before they were put on Reservations," said Burton.
"Old Ehimmeshunka would about fill that bill, I guess," said Welch. "She's old, all right. She's Washitonka's squaw. Their daughter is Pahrunta, and she takes baskets and fancy things like that on the railroad train to sell."
"I should like to see them," said Burton eagerly. They certainly were the very people he wanted to see. Those were the names Ben Bussey had mentioned.
"All right; come along."
"Can they speak English?"
"Washitonka speaks fairly well. Ehimmeshunka doesn't need to, of course. Pahrunta knows a few words, enough to enable her to get about by herself. She probably understands a good deal more than she shows. They are that way."
"I shall be greatly obliged if you will act as interpreter."
"Certainly. Hello, here's Washitonka now!"
An old Indian had entered the room so noiselessly that neither of the white men had heard him. He was a striking figure, erect in spite of the years he carried, and wrapped in a blanket which looked as dignified as any Roman toga. In spite of the stolidity of his expression, there was unmistakable curiosity in the look he bent upon Burton.
"What you want, Washitonka?" asked Welch, in a tone of indulgent jocularity.