The little half-breed was a sturdy
fellow, but he was starving too, and thought that he should be allowed
to save himself.
After he had had a talk with father, however, and the first company of
refugees had gone, he became reconciled to his lot, and served us
faithfully. He would take us little ones up to exercise upon the snow,
saying that we should learn to keep our feet on the slick, frozen
surface, as well as to wade through slush and loose drifts.
Frequently, when at work and lonesome, he would call Georgia and me up
to keep him company, and when the weather was frosty, he would bring
"Old Navajo," his long Indian blanket, and roll her in it from one end,
and me from the other, until we would come together in the middle, like
the folds of a paper of pins, with a face peeping above each fold. Then
he would set us upon the stump of the pine tree while he chopped the
trunk and boughs for fuel. He told us that he had promised father to
stay until we children should be taken from camp, also that his home
was to be with our family forever. One of his amusements was to rake
the coals together nights, then cover them with ashes, and put the
large camp kettle over the pile for a drum, so that we could spread our
hands around it, "to get just a little warm before going to bed."
For the time, he lived at Aunt Betsy's tent, because Solomon Hook was
snow-blind and demented, and at times restless and difficult to
control.
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