As it did
so, I saw that the bareback rider was a small girl, and she was our
little Sioux friend, Chitto.
She made a striking picture, with her long, black hair streaming over
her shoulders, and her dress fluttering in the wind.
"Why, Chitto," said I, in amazement, "where did you come from?"
"Must go--must go--must go!" she exclaimed, in great excitement. "Indian
soon be here!"
So it seemed that, in the few weeks since she had been at our house,
she had picked up enough of the English language to make herself
understood.
"What do you mean?" asked mother, as she and I advanced to the side of
the black steed upon which the little Sioux sat; "what are the Indians
doing?"
"They burn buildings--have killed people--coming this way!"
Chitto spoke the truth, for the Sioux were raging like demons at that
very hour at Lac Qui Parle.
"What shall we do, Chitto?" asked my mother.
"Get on horse--he carry you."
"But my husband; the horse can not carry all three of us."
My poor distracted mother scarcely knew what to do. All this time father
sat like a statue in his chair. A terrible suspicion suddenly entered
her mind, and she ran to him.
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