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 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.