The hour was early when Pat stuck his head over the partition, and to Peter said: “Whisht! Are ye awake, Peter?” “H’lo,” answered Peter. “I’ll fetch ye a bite to eat, an’ wather to drink,” said Patrick. “An’ ye best lie hid till we start, when the Injuns go. ’Twon’t be long.” “Aw-right,” answered Peter. Patrick passed in to him some dried meat and a canteen of water. After that the day seemed to move very slowly. Here on the boat all was quiet, particularly in Peter’s end. However, outside on the shore there was a constant sound of voices, from the ’Nited States camp. The sun rose high, as betokened by the close warmth where Peter lay hidden. He felt as though he must get out and see what was going on. So he peered over the top of the partition, to find whether the forecastle was empty. It was. He slipped down into it, and stealing through and worming flat across the deck, peeped through a crack in the gunwale. Little Thief and his Otoes and Missouris had not yet gone. They were holding another council with the ’Nited States. More talk! The ’Nited States chiefs and warriors were sitting, and the Otoes and Missouris were sitting, all forming a great circle. One after another the Otoes and the Missouris arose and talked, and the white chiefs replied; but of all this talk Peter understood little. After a time he grew tired; the sun was hot, and he went back into his nook. He still had meat and water enough. It was much later when he awakened, to hear people in the room beyond his partition. There were white men’s voices――one voice sounded like that of his other friend, George Shannon. And there were groans. Soon the white men left――all except the man who groaned. He stayed. Evidently one of the white men was sick, and had been put into a bed. Dusk was falling, and Peter thought that he might venture out and stretch his legs. The sounds from the sick man had ceased; maybe he slept. Peter peered over. Everything was quiet; and forth he slipped――only to discover that in the open door was sitting, amidst the dusk, a watcher. It was the United States warrior, George Shannon. He saw Peter, poised about to leap down, and smiled and beckoned. Peter lightly went to him. George Shannon looked worn and anxious. “Are you all right, Peter?” “Yes. Aw-right.” “A soldier――very sick,” said George, and pointed to a bunk. “What name?” asked Peter. “Charles Floyd. He danced and got hot. Lay down on the sand all night and got cold. Now very sick.” “Huh,” grunted Peter. “Mebbe get well?” “I don’t know,” said George, soberly. That was too bad. Why didn’t they call in the black medicine-man? Except for George and the sick Charles Floyd, the boat was deserted; for on the shore another dance and feast were in progress. Chief Little Thief and his Indians were staying, and the ’Nited States appeared to be bent upon giving them a good time.