Pa said he would go
right over and drive them back to the tents.
I tried to get pa to let the police go and drive them off, but he said
he hadn't no time to go and wake up the police, and they wouldn't get
around anyway before the middle of the week. So pa took a tent stake and
started for the green corn roast. The Indians were taking turns dancing
and eating roasted corn, and they had a barrel of beer, and I knew
enough about Indians to keep away from them when they mix beer with
green corn, for it has about the same effect as committing suicide with
carbolic acid.
Pa put his hat on one side of his head and went right into the midst of
the Indians, and grabbed a chief called "One Ear at a Time," and hit him
with the tent stake, and knocked him down, and said, "Now, you git."
Well, sir, that Indian had no more than struck the fire in a sitting
position, and filled the air with the odor of fried buckskin, before the
whole tribe jumped on pa, and they kicked him with their moccasins, and
were going to murder him, while the chief who acted as the burnt
offering got out of the fire, and sat down in the cold mud to cool
himself. He held up his hand as a signal of attention, and he called a
council of war, while the squaws sat on pa to hold him down.
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