“A story? here—in the middle of the river?” we shouted.
“In the middle of the river; here—a story!” he echoed.
“I would like to sit down while I listen,” observed George.
Evidently the coldness of the water had forced the blood into our friend’s head. He was ill, but obstinate. We therefore resigned ourselves to hear him.
“This river and this situation remind me of the Potawatamies,” he began.
“Potawatamies!” we echoed, with chattering teeth. “Go on; go on.”
“When I was on the Plains,” continued the colonel, “I passed some time among those Indians. During my stay, the chief invited me to accompany him on a buffalo-hunt. I accepted on the spot; for of all things a buffalo-hunt was the one I was most desirous of seeing. We set out at daybreak the next morning. After a few hours’ march, we came to a stream between deep banks, and flowing with a rapid current, like this one—”
“Go on; go on!” we shiveringly articulated.
“At a gesture from the chief, a young squaw dismounted from her pony, advanced to the edge of the stream, and began, timidly, to wade it. When she hesitated, as she did two or three times, the chief said something which encouraged her to proceed. All at once she stopped, threw up her arms, and screamed something in the Indian dialect; at which all the braves burst into a loud laugh, the squaws joining in.
“‘What does she say?’ I asked of the chief.