"No further than usual, Mother," answered Billy.

And then, afraid that Mother might ask something, he ran off, waving his hand and sighing a deep sigh of relief.

Billy had spent some restless hours during the night, thinking about the story he was to write. As he was only a little boy and couldn't write very well, and as this was his very first story, he was a little bit afraid of the results.

But the determination to surprise Father and Mother had grown within him ever since the idea had come to him yesterday at Bah's home. Father thought Billy couldn't do it! Well, he'd show him! He'd listen while Mrs. Fighting Bull told him things, and hadn't he already learned lots about them?

[Ill.u.s.tration: BAH'S MOTHER WEAVING NAVAJO BLANKET]

In fact, he'd started his story! He'd started it with a poem (at least he thought it a poem) and that is what he clutched in his pocket when Father chided him. He was going to show it to Bah and her mother.

He was going to ask them what they thought of it and he was going to tell them all about the contest, and how he'd planned to win the radio without telling his parents!

How astonished they'd be, and how Father would stare when he saw the radio arrive with his son's name engraved thereon--

"Winner of Composition Contest."

His dreams accompanied Billy all the way to the Trading Post. There he had a hurried breakfast of milk and crackers, allowed Peanuts to graze a bit in the clover, and after buying some funny chocolates in the forms of objects, animals, birds and fishes which he thought would amuse Bah, he was off in search of his new-made friends--and information.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BAH'S FATHER STRETCHING A SKIN]

Upon arriving at the hogan he found Bah's mother already seated at her loom. Fighting Bull was stretching a goat's skin outside the hogan door.

After greeting the Indians, Billy looked around for Bah. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Bah?" he asked of her mother. The woman shook her head, the usual amused smile playing over her features. "Not here."

The Indians had not seemed particularly pleased to see him, he thought, and his heart was beginning to sink. But then Bah's mother pointed towards the play hogan. "Over there. She play mother and papoose.

See?"

With these words, Mrs. Fighting Bull laughed out loud, a sort of chuckle it was, but nevertheless she did laugh, and Billy felt rea.s.sured. He looked and saw Bah.

She was emerging from her play hogan, and there was something on her back. He couldn't tell what it was, but as she approached he saw that it was a large board with a blanket strapped around it. Something was in the blanket, and that something was heavy, too, for Bah was obviously weighted down.

"What's that?" asked Billy, puzzled.

"That my papoose," laughed Bah, and turning her back towards Billy he saw, strapped cozily to the papoose cradle, a baby sheep! It was bleating, "Baa, Baa--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: BAH'S PAPOOSE]

"He knows your name," laughed Billy, stroking the small woolly head.

Bah sat down with her burden on her back and Billy sat beside her. The Indian mother continued to smile to herself as she went on weaving.

"Me glad you come," said Bah, smiling her friendly smile.

"Are you?" questioned Billy. "I couldn't wait to get here. You know, I've started to write a story--a real story like Father writes. It's going to be all about you!"

"Me?" the little girl pointed to herself. She realized that this was something important, for the white boy was excited and although the affair was very vague to her, she mustered up the enthusiasm necessary.

"I've written a poem to start it with. Want to hear it?"

"Oh, yes," Bah's eyes grew big. Just what a poem was didn't matter. It was important to know that Billy had written one. So he read--

"Bah, Bah Indian girl, Have you any bread?

Yes sir, yes sir, That's what I was fed.

When I was a papoose I cried to my ma, So she gave me bread, And now my name is 'Bah'!"

There was a loud explosion from the corner where Mrs. Fighting Bull was weaving. Billy's face grew red. Mrs. Fighting Bull was laughing at him.

Oh, now he knew he must have done something wrong!

The Indian woman composed herself and beckoning the boy over, she said: "You write good words. Tell me more."

Billy had a great deal to learn about Indians; he was beginning to realize that. Evidently Bah's mother was kindly disposed towards him but she had a queer way of laughing at everything, which was hard for Billy to understand.

Still, he thought, it was better to laugh at everything than to be cross and angry. Mrs. Fighting Bull was a jolly woman, that was all, and Billy moved up close to her and smiled up into her face.

"Gee, I'm glad you like it. I thought, when you laughed, you were making fun of me. You see, I never wrote anything before, and this story has just got to be good, because----"

And then he told Bah and her mother of his desire to win the contest and the prize attached to it.

"You like I tell you more?" asked the Indian woman.

"That's just what I'd like to have you do, if you would," answered the boy writer.

"Well, I tell you."

With no more ado, Mrs. Fighting Bull started talking as Billy sat and listened to her words.

CHAPTER VII

ALL ABOUT THE INDIANS

The Navajo Indians live in hogans. That, you already have heard--and you know what a hogan looks like. But all Indian tribes do not use the same kind of dwelling places.

The Pueblo, Hopi and other peaceful tribes live in what are called pueblos. They are houses built of adobe and they are built to resemble a child's stone blocks when he has piled one on top of the other. To reach the top of a pueblo one must climb the ladders which are set up against the outside of the building.

The Pueblo villages are different from the Navajo villages. They are composed of long rows of these pinkish adobe block houses, and the Indian tribes who live therein are, as I have said, peaceful.

Can you imagine why, being as they are of a peaceful nature, these tribes build as they do? It is so that they can be protected from warlike tribes, in their many storied houses. Then, too, the tribes which build pueblos do not wander, as the warlike tribes do. The pueblos are stationary, and they are built to be permanent homes. They are built, mainly, by the women and children, who do all the manual work--while the men often sit at home weaving garments and knitting stockings.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PIPE OF PEACE]

The tepees are the abode of warlike Indians, such as the Sioux, Apaches, etc. They wander and so they build temporary dwellings which, at a moment's notice, may be transported quickly and easily from one location to another.