nd that some one
was in pursuit of me.

"Well, never mind talking now; we must first set you on your feet
again," he said in a kind voice. "My companions will be here presently.
You want food and rest, and then you can tell us what has happened."

"Food, food," I whispered.

"Yes, poor fellow, you shall have it," he answered, in a tone of
commiseration, taking from his wallet some pemmican, which I ate with a
keen relish.

The food revived me, and I felt much better by the time my new friend's
companions came up. They stood round me while I continued eating, with
looks of pity and wonder on their expressive countenances. I saw by
their dress and appearance that they were Ottoes, a tribe dwelling to
the south of the Nebraska, and always friendly to the whites. My friend
was the only one who could speak English, which he did perfectly. He
saw me examining his countenance.

"I am half an Englishman," he observed. "I am called John Pipestick.
My father came from Kent, in the old country, I have often heard him
say; the garden of England he called it. A poor place for buffaloes and
wild turkeys, I should think, so it would not suit me. He sometimes
talked of going to have a look at the hop fields and a taste of its ale,
but he was killed by the Pawnees, who carried of his scalp. I've not
left him unavenged, though. My mother was a red-skin, and belonged to
this tribe, and I have no wish to quit them. But come, friend, you have
done eating, and a man who can eat is not in a very bad way. Lean on
us, and we will take you to our tents. They are not more than three
miles off."

Supported in the arms of the kind Ottoes, I walked along with tolerable
ease. They were very fine fellows. One was fully six feet six inches
in height, and proportionably strong limbed. The rest were not much his
inferiors. John Pipestick was shorter, but very strong. As I walked
along I found my tongue loosed, and I gave a succinct account of what
had occurred. John interpreted. The Indians pricked up their ears, and
had an animated discussion among themselves. We reached at length what
is called a cedar swamp in the States. The cedar trees form a dense,
tangled thicket, perfectly impervious to the wind, and in winter, when
the moist ground is frozen hard below, such a locality is perfectly
healthy. Woe betide the unfortunate wretch who has to take up his
quarters within one in the summer time, when mosquitoes and rattlesnak