It's Friday.
Then Pa squatted down by the Indian, and they sat there, friendly but not saying a word, while Ma finished cooking dinner. Laura and Mary were close together and quiet on their bed in the corner. They couldn’t take their eyes from that Indian. He was so still that the beautiful eagle-feathers in his scalplock didn’t stir. Only his bare chest and the leanness under his ribs moved a little to his breathing. He wore fringed leather leggings, and his moccasins were covered with beads. Ma gave Pa and the Indian their dinner on two tin plates, and they ate silently. Then Pa gave the Indian some tobacco for his pipe. They filled their pipes, and they lighted the tobacco with coals from the fire, and they silently smoked until the pipes were empty. All this time nobody had said anything. But now the Indian said something to Pa. Pa shook his head and said no speak. A while longer they all sat silently. Then the Indian rose up and went away without a sound. Ma said my goodness gracious. Laura and Mary ran to the window. They saw the Indian’s straight back, riding away on a pony. He held a gun across his knees, its ends stuck out on either side of him. Pa said that Indian was no common trash. He guessed by the scalplock that he was an Osage. Pa said that unless he missed his guess, that had been French he had spoken and he wished he had picked up some of that lingo. Ma said she wished the Indians would keep themselves to themselves and they would do the same, and she didn’t like Indians around underfoot. Pa told her not to worry. He said that that Indian had been perfectly friendly, and their camps down among the bluffs were peaceable enough, and if they treated them well and watched Jack, they wouldn’t have any trouble.
