as moved into a
deep gorge of the Big Horn Mountains out of the way of the trailing
Yellow-Eyes. For a thousand feet the rock walls rose on either side.
A narrow brook wound down between their narrow ways. Numerous lateral
canons crossed the main one, giving grass and protection to their
ponies. As it suited the individual tastes of the people, the lodges
were placed in cozy places. When the snows fell the Indians forgot the
wagon-soldiers, as they feasted and gossiped by their camp-fires.

They felt secure in their eerie home, though the camp-cryer frequently
passed, shouting: "Do not let your ponies wander down the canon and make
trails for the Yellow-Eyes to see." The women worked the colored
beads and porcupine quills, chatted with each other, or built discreet
romances as fancy dictated. The men gambled, or made smoke-talks by the
night fires. It was the Indian time of social enjoyment.

Restless young men beat up the country in search of adventure; and
only this day a party had arrived with Absaroke scalps which they
were dancing after the sun had gone. The hollow beat of the tom-toms
multiplied against the sides of the canon, together with the wild
shrieking and yelling of the rejoicers; but the old Fire Eater had grown
weary of dancing scalps. He had danced his youthful enthusiasm away,
caring more to sit by his lodge fire playing with his little boy or
passing the pipe with men who could remember the days which were better
than these--with men who could recall to his mind the ardor of his lost
youth. Thus he sat on this wild, whooping night with old Big Hand by his
side to smoke his talk, and with his son asleep across his lap.

"Where did the war-party leave its trail as it came to the lodges?" he
asked.

Big Hand in reply said: "The man who strikes said they came over the
mountains--that the snow lay deep. They did not lead up from the plains.
They obeyed the chiefs. If it was not so, the camp-soldiers would have
beaten them with sticks. You have not heard the women or the dogs cry."

"It is good," continued the Fire Eater. "The wagon-soldiers will not
find a trail on the high hills. The snow would stop their wheels. They
will dream that the Chis-chis-chash were made into birds and have flown
away." The Fire Eater chuckled as he loaded his pipe.

Then Big Hand: "I have heard, brother, that ponies passed the herders at
the mouth of the canon last smoke. It was cold, and they had their robes
tight over th