“B’jabbers, there’s pluck!” approved Patrick Gass. “Now, we be goin’ to take some o’ this meat back wid us, but we’ll lave you enough to chew on. You have plenty fire. ’Twas only for signal to the Injuns to come in to council. We had no thought o’ burnin’ annywan, ’specially a boy. No, or of burnin’ me own coat, nayther, till I see the wind changin’.” He and George rapidly made up a parcel of the meat, blackened and charred though the hunks were. “But we cooked our supper by it. Goodbye to ye. Chance be we’ll see ye later.” With airy wave of hand he trudged away. “His name is Patrick Gass. My name is George Shannon,” emphasized George, lingering a moment. “Yours is Peter Kerr. All right, Peter. Watch out for the Otoes, that they don’t spy you when you come in after dark.” “I come,” answered Peter, carefully. “Oto no catch.” Away they hastened, toward the river. Standing stock-still, Peter watched them go. Good men they were. They were white; he was white. They were ’Nited States; he was to be ’Nited States, too. He did not pause to eat now. He grabbed a chunk of the buffalo meat left for him, and trotted for the nearest sand-hill. The fire had burned before him, and the earth was still warm, but the sand-hills were untouched. He drank, at last, from a branch of the Omaha Creek; and among the sand-hills he stayed all day. In the afternoon he heard, from off toward the United States camp at the river, a rumble like thunder. It was the big gun! At dusk he saw a glow redly lighting the eastern horizon over the river. Maybe the United States were having a war-dance. At any rate, the man named Pat had told him to come; this seemed to be the best time; and, guided by the glow, he hurried for the river. When he had struck the river well above the camp, the boats and the beach were ruddy. People had gathered about a huge fire. They were making music and dancing; and some were white men and others were Indians: Otoes! Chief Little Thief had arrived. Somewhat fearing, but very determined, Peter cautiously waded out into the water, and from waist-deep slipping into the current silently swam down, down, outside the edge of the firelight, until obliquing in he might use the big boat as a shield. With his hand he felt along it; encountered a rope stretched taut from boat to water. Wah! Or――hoorah, he meant. As neatly as a cat he swarmed up the rope and hoisted himself over the gunwale. Sprawling in, he dropped flat, to cower in the shadow of the mast. A dark figure, with a gun, had seen him――was making for him, from down the deck. “Hist, Peter!” huskily spoke a voice. “’Tis Pat. Ye’re all right. Stay where ye are, now!”