"What do you know yourself about these people?" he asked the Agent.
"Well, not much. You see, I've just come."
"You know their language."
"Oh, yes. I've been in the service for some time, but I was assigned here only about a month ago, when the other Agent died. I haven't seen all the Indians that belong to me yet. They're away somewhere, hunting or loafing, or riding their wild ponies over the prairies just for fun. No head for business."
"Then you know nothing of the personal history of Washitonka or who his friends are?"
"Not a scrap."
"I'm sorry," said Burton. "I wanted to learn something about the early days when they saw more or less of the early settlers."
"Writing a book?"
"You might call it so," said Burton non-committally. (Certainly he might, if he wanted to.)
"That old chap, Washitonka, ought to have stories to tell," said Welch, with interest, "but he seems as close as a clam. That's an Indian trait. They won't talk personalities."