The departure of the Indians from the prairie is the quiet, almost anticlimactic resolution to the weeks of terror that had gripped the Ingalls family. After nights of war-cries, drumming, and the constant threat of attack, the morning brings not violence but a long, silent procession of Indians leaving the land. For Laura Ingalls, this exodus is not a relief but a profound loss, crystallized in her desperate, unanswered plea for an Indian baby—a moment that captures both a child's innocent longing and the deep, unspoken tragedy of displacement that shadows the entire novel.

The End of the War-Cry Crisis

The departure follows the worst night the family had endured. For nights on end, the Indians had shouted, danced, and beaten their drums, with war-cries answering war-cries all up and down the creek, filling the prairie with a sound that allowed no rest. The silent days were worse than the nights, as the animals stayed in the stable, Mary and Laura could not leave the house, and Pa watched and listened constantly, barely eating. One day his head fell onto the table in exhaustion, and he slept a little, only to wake with a jump and crossly tell Ma, "Don't let me do that again!" That night was the worst of all, with drums beating faster and war-cries making their blood run cold. At the window, Pa speculated to Ma that the Indians were quarrelling among themselves, and might fight each other, to which Ma fervently hoped so. Just before sunrise, the last war-cry ended, and Laura fell asleep in Ma's arms.

When she woke, it was already noon, with the door open and the sun high in the sky. Pa sat outside on the step and told Ma that there was another big group going off to the south. Laura went to the door and saw a long line of Indians far away. Pa explained that two long lines had already gone west that morning, and now this one was going south—a sign that the Indians had argued among themselves and were not going to hunt buffalo together. That night, for the first time in what felt like an age, the family slept, not even dreaming. In the morning, Pa took his gun and went down the creek road, leaving Laura, Mary, and Ma to wait the whole long day. When he returned in the late afternoon, he reported that everything was all right. He had walked up and down the creek and seen many empty Indian camps. All the Indian tribes had left, except the Osages.

The reason for the terrible noise became clear: the tribes had been howling at each other, and in the end, the other tribes did not want to fight Great Soldier and the Osages, so they went away. Pa's verdict was stark and telling: "That's one good Indian!"

The Silent Procession

After another long night of sleep, Pa opened the door to let in the warm spring air. Standing on the step and looking east, he called Ma, Mary, and Laura to come see. Laura ran out first and was surprised: the Indians were coming. First came the tall Indian chief who had saved their lives, his black horse very near. Laura's heart beat fast as she looked at his moccasins, his colourful blanket, and his naked brown-red arms that carried the long gun. His face was still and fierce, with only the long eagle feathers in his hair moving in the wind. "Great Soldier himself," Pa said softly, lifting his hand to say hello.

But the horse and the Indian chief went by without looking at Pa, Ma, Mary, Laura, or the house. Then other horses and Indians with eagle feathers in their hair went by, brown face after brown face, with bright beads shining in the sun and horses' tails and eagle feathers blowing in the wind. The women and children came riding behind the men. Little naked brown Indians, no bigger than Mary and Laura, rode by without having to wear clothes, their straight black hair blowing in the wind and their black eyes shining with happiness. Laura looked and looked at the Indian children, and they looked back at her. She had a sudden wish to be a little Indian girl, to ride naked in the wind and the sun.

Laura's Plea for the Papoose

Then Indian mothers came riding by with babies in baskets at the sides of their horses. Laura looked straight into the bright eyes of one little baby, whose eyes were black as a night when no stars shine. Overcome, she said, "Pa, get me that little Indian baby!" Pa told her to be quiet, but the baby's head turned and its eyes looked into Laura's eyes. "Oh, I want it! I want it!" Laura cried. "It wants to stay with me. Please, Pa, please!" Pa's response was firm and final: "Quiet, Laura. The Indian woman wants to keep her baby."

Laura began to cry. The little papoose was gone, and she was never going to see it again. Ma was bewildered, saying she had never heard of such a thing and asking why Laura would want an Indian baby of all things. Laura could only answer, "Its eyes are so black," unable to say what she truly meant. No one was hungry for dinner that day. Pa, Ma, Mary, and Laura stayed by the door and looked at the long line of Indians until nothing was left but silence and emptiness. All the world seemed very quiet and lonely.

Aftermath and the Coming Spring

In the wake of the departure, the prairie itself seemed to change. One morning the whole prairie was green, and Pa hurried into the field with the horses and his plough, while Mary and Laura helped Ma plant the seeds for the vegetables. They were all so happy because spring had come, and Pa declared, "Soon we'll have vegetables to eat and we'll live like kings!" The joy of the season, however, was undercut by the emptiness left by the Indians' departure. The family's relief at their safety was mingled with a profound sense of loss and loneliness, a silence that filled the world they now had to themselves. The event marks a turning point: the immediate threat is gone, but the cost of that safety—the removal of an entire people—hangs over the family's new beginning, foreshadowing their own eventual displacement from the land they had come to love.