"Poor fellow, he has a pet to follow him about just as I had at home,"
thought Timid Hare. "Perhaps by-and-by the dog may learn to love me
too." There was a big lump in the little girl's throat, and she
coughed as she tried to choke it back.
"Hard work," said Black Bull as he watched her pulling the coarse
thread through the buffalo skin and trying not to tear it. "Hard
work," he repeated. "Too bad."
Timid Hare nodded. "Good dog," she ventured after a while, looking at
the dog with a sad little smile. "I had a dog; I loved him," she added.
"Very good dog. He is my friend," replied the youth. "He goes with me
everywhere--everywhere. He makes me--not lonely. I call him Smoke."
Black Bull put his arm lovingly around Smoke's neck and the dog whined
softly. It was the only way in which he could say, "I love you, poor
master, if no one else does."
"My people are great people," Black Bull went on. "They are very
strong." Timid Hare nodded. "The Dahcotas are brave above all men.
Their bands are so many I could not count them." The very thought of
counting a large number made the simple-minded youth look puzzled.
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