Sponge-belly took us to the council house, a long, narrow barn near the center of the town; and behind us crowded the entire throng—men, women, children and dogs. The interior of the building was smoky from a fire smouldering in its center. Sponge-belly settled himself beside this fire, and motioned to me to sit near him. Tiny sat near me, breathing hard and holding his ankle, which was swollen. Doc, Verrieul and the others huddled there as well, while the crowd came pouring in to gather around us and stand staring.

Sponge-belly took his pipe from his belt, loaded it with tobacco, lighted it at the fire, blew the smoke straight into the air above him: then at the earth. He handed it to me, and from me it passed around the silent circle.

The silence was broken by the arrival of an elderly Indian, tall and a little stooped, decorated with enough beadwork and quill-work and hair-fringe to supply a dozen men. The fringes of his leggins were edged with black hair and so was his buckskin shirt. Around his neck was a string of bear claws and above each elbow were silver bracelets. His leggins were fastened below the knee with bead garters colored red, blue and black. His moccasins were embroidered with colored porcupine quills, and their tops turned over in loose cuffs edged with brass bells that tinkled with every step. His hair was long and wavy, as was that of another man who followed him. The latter, however, wore a buckskin vest edged with beadwork, and the open seat of his leggins was concealed by an enormous medicine bag made of black hawk skins.

The first one, Verrieul whispered to us, was the Peace Chief of the Sac nation, Pahokuk, and the second was the chief shaman or magician, Wahoway, father of Tiny.

They sat down with us to stare silently at nothing. Sponge-belly loaded his pipe afresh and started it around again. We sat there and sat there. Nobody asked questions: nobody seemed curious about anything except our appearance. We must have sat there an hour before Sponge-belly unexpectedly coughed, and plunged into an oration. He spoke deliberately, giving Verrieul an opportunity to translate his words.

The Great Spirit, he said, had smiled on their journey to the eastward. There had been a great fight. Later the White Father in England would send a special belt to the Sac nation, with medals for the chiefs.

The white men, he said, had fought with lightning and thunder, and the howlings of the storm. They fought in wooden canoes, each one larger than twenty of the largest canoes in all the country of the Saukie-ok. In the wooden canoes were guns that held more powder than a thousand pistols, vomited smoke in clouds, and hurled bullets the size of pumpkins—bullets that traveled a mile and shattered men to nothing.