“Oh, I am—a full-blooded Blackfoot. And your father got the name right. It’s Eagle Plume, only most people call me Joe. It’s simpler.” He threw Mike a friendly grin. “You wouldn’t guess it, but I even went to college.”
“No kidding! Where?”
“Agricultural school in Montana.”
“So you’re a farmer,” Mr. Cook said.
Joe shook his head. “No, I studied animal husbandry. I figure on owning a cattle ranch some day. Got one all picked out.” He gestured to a chair. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, no. Here.” Mike pushed over a chair.
Joe lowered himself comfortably and took off his hat. “Incidentally,” he said, “last time I used that ‘Me heap big Injun’ routine was when I was hired as an extra by a movie company.”
Sandy moved over to the porch railing and hoisted himself up against a post. “Gee, a movie star! Were you a real bad Indian?”
Joe laughed. “I was a real dead Indian, that’s for sure. I got killed eight different times in that picture. Some fun. The only trouble was that I had to pretend to be a Crow Indian.”
“What’s bad about that?”