They had taken from me Miss Spitfire's revolver, or I should have shot myself.
The squaws made some suppawn in a big kettle, and my squaw brought me some in a dirty wooden bowl.

I was too homesick to eat, and this troubled her.

She tried to coax me, with atrocious grins and nods, to eat the smoking suppawn.

I couldn't, and she looked unhappy.
Then something happened--something hit the bowl and sent the hot mush flying into my beauty's face, and spattering over me.

At the same instant about twenty Indians were hit, also, and went tumbling over, with their mouths full of supper.