"You got papoose now?"
"Yes."
"She sleep in wagon?"
"No, she has never slept there since her father and mother died. She sleeps with my little girls in that wagon," pointing to the canvas-covered prairie schooner where his own children lay asleep.
"Indian no want papoose. Indian no want paper. White man want papoose and paper."
Joshua Peniman nodded. "Yes, I see your point. But I don't know. It's beyond me. I don't know what to think."
The children, awakened by the talking, had now crowded to the back of the wagon, and Ruth, Nina, Sam, and Paul were staring out with bulging eyes.
For the first time they were gazing upon a real Red Man of the Plains, and strange to say their father was not shooting at him nor scalping him, nor even being scalped by him, but was standing quietly talking to him, evidently asking his advice.
The younger children were also awake now, and Mrs. Peniman got down from the wagon and began preparing the breakfast.
"Thee must stay and break bread with us, friend Neowage," said Joshua Peniman; and presently the whole family were gathered about the oilcloth on the grass, with Neowage cross-legged and silent among them.