"Friends good people. Good heart. Good friend to Winnebagoes."
"Then you are a Winnebago? Who were the others—those Indians that attacked us?"
"Dirty Sioux." He turned and spurned the dead body in the grass with his foot.
"Ah, they were Sioux, eh? Are the Sioux hostile to white men?"
"Sioux bad Indian. Heap bad heart. Winnebago good Indian. Heap white man's friend."
"I am glad, glad indeed to hear it. You don't know how you relieve my anxious heart. But how did it happen that you came to our aid so opportunely last night?"
The Indian folded his arms across his brawny chest.
"My tribe war with Sioux," he said. "Heap much trouble now. Inkpaducah on war-path. Kill heap white men. Me hear gun, know trouble. My young men on war-path. Fight Sioux all time. Me come, drive Sioux away."
"God be thanked you did come. You saved our lives. How can I thank you?"
The Indian waved his hand with a royal gesture. As his keen eyes roved about the encampment they fell upon a scrap of paper which lay under the Carroll wagon. He strode over to it and picked it up, then remained gazing at the ground for some minutes.