Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 11 (1/4) By Frank Beill 1886: Hull, Yorkshire

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4). Part 1 Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. Part 2 Prologue, Chapter 1, 2, 3.

We waited standing back to back, hoping this would give us some protection. The tribesmen slowly circled us, just as they would when attacking a wagon train of settlers on its way to California. Well, this is what my novel said they did. Occasionally, a warrior would prod one of us. One snatched a hair from George's head before rushing back within the group to display his strange booty. All the time Red Shirt remained standing in the background: watching with arms folded, aloof from the antics of his warriors. The tribesman who had rushed away returned with a white man with the bushiest brown beard I'd ever seen.

It grew all the way up his face until it became part of his crumpled sombrero. Looking out of this thick bush were doleful eyes above a long weather beaten nose, which gave him the appearance of an old bloodhound. 'What have we here?' The words were drawled out in a much thicker version of the strange accent used by the man on Holderness Road who told us our services were not required.

Red Shirt turned and spoke to the newcomer. To my surprise the old bloodhound understood what was said to him and to my greater amazement he replied in what had the sound of the same weird heathen tongue. 'The chief wants to know what you young fellers is doin' here.' Several teeth were missing from the sad hound's mouth. The few remaining were brown from years of chewing tobacco as well as smoking it. 'He specially wants to know what a young Redman is doing here.'

Gnarled fingers struggled to escape from the ends of buckskin sleeves too long for his arms. They managed to break free and come to rest on his hips. He waited for our reply. I coughed to clear my throat before going into my life story. Mercifully my life so far was a short one but I brought it up to date by telling them about my mistake in thinking Red Shirt was my father and how I was certain he must still be alive in America.

Nelson stopped me periodically and turned to the chief to retell my tale. Well, I guessed this was what he was doing. The chief was nodding and understanding until I heard the word 'orphanage' in among all the Sioux words. Red Shirt put out a hand to stop our interpreter in mid flow and tried repeating the word. I could see incomprehension in his eyes. 'The chief ain't heard of no orphanages.'

The American gave us a lopsided grin before attempting to explain the meaning of an orphanage to all the tribesmen. Their bewilderment didn't seem to be clarified at all by what Nelson said. Again the chief raised his right hand, palm forward to arrest the American in mid sentence. Red Shirt's few staccato words and grim expression indicated even to me that he was not happy with what he was being told.

Continued... Next Page (2/4)

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