“Hunt little; no much get. Too much game law.”
“I see.” Miss Drexal led the way into the house, her strange guest stalking in her wake. Turning him over to Martha, who had furnished him with many a meal, the registrar returned to the living room where an excited bevy of girls awaited her. Ruth and Emmy were not among them. Detailed as first aids to Martha, they had already been presented to the famous old guide by Miss Drexal, and were at that very moment engaged in viewing him slyly at close range. So far as he was concerned, they might as well not have been in the kitchen. After gingerly shaking hands with them, he had taken a stiff stand at one end of the kitchen and vouchsafed them not so much as a glance from his sharp black eyes.
“He gave me an awful fright,” confessed Jane, during a brief lull in the eager questions the girls had hurled at their hostess. “Isn’t he really a bit fierce or savage?”
“Not a bit,” laughed Miss Drexal. “He is a splendid man and not at all like the average Indian of to-day. As I have already told you, his grandfather was a great Cheyenne chief, and Blue Wolf can tell you all the most interesting traditions of the Cheyennes. Just now, he is out of his element. Wait until he gets used to the idea of you girls; then he will talk to you and become quite friendly in his proud, silent way. He is a dependable guide, too. After dinner I will ask him to come into the living room. I don’t imagine he will stay long to-night. I shall have to find out what arrangements he has made for us. Perhaps we shall be able to start on our trip within a day or two.”
This information elicited a chorus of gleeful cries. Even Jane had so far forgotten her recent fright as to inquire eagerly: “How shall we act when we’re introduced to Blue Wolf? Do we shake hands or just bow, or what?”
“You may offer him your hand,” replied Miss Drexal, “but don’t any of you dare to giggle. If you do, you will offend him. Be strictly on your dignity with him at first. He will like that.”
The appearance of Emmy in the doorway announcing dinner brought to an end the discussion of the proper way to receive Blue Wolf.
“Someone ought to warn Blanche not to behave like a refrigerator when she meets him,” Sarah whispered wickedly to Frances as the party trooped into the dining room.
“Where is she? In the kitchen with Ruth?”
“Not she,” murmured Sarah. “She hasn’t helped with a single meal since she came. She’s upstairs sulking, I suppose, about goodness knows what.”