hey were busy, he came slowly toward
the camera, watching every move I made in trying to get a picture of the
Paint Rocks. He was about five feet tall, heavy set and rather dark. His
good, round head well set on fine shoulders, was covered with long,
heavy hair, carefully braided in small braids, which hung below his
waist. At intervals these braids were cemented with some wax and painted
red and green, which gave them the appearance of being bound with
straps. The sternness of his large mouth, square chin, and heavy jaw was
relieved by the large, brown eyes. Three scars on his face told of a
battle fought many years ago, as also did the knife scar on his breast
and the old gun-shot wound. On his wrist were brass wristlets, and
three missing finger joints told of mournings for his dead. A medicine
bag and a half dozen elk teeth swung at his throat; these and beaded
moccasins and leggings showed him to be a chief. An Indian he was all
through.

As I turned to look at him he straightened himself to his full height,
and I had taken him in from head to heel when he put his right arm out
in front of him closed his hand, and gave it three rapid motions up and
down, which, in sign talk, is "How do you do." Quick as a flash I
straightened my arm out, laying my thumb across my little finger, made a
half curve, out from the body inward, then an angling sweep down, which
means "Good." A twinkle came in his eye, and he answered by giving me
the same sign.

I knew him, but twenty years had passed over his head since I last saw
him, and it was twenty-eight years since he and Sitting Bull fought a
duel with knives, on the Big Horn.

I gave him a challenge and called him a Sioux, which is done by
straightening the fingers of the right hand, laying the thumb close
into the palm, making a rounded curve outward, then a quick sweep across
the throat. He found and gave me the answer "No." Then he came very
close to me, and when he saw the powder in my face, he gave a grunt of
satisfaction.

I took off my glove and held out my hand. He grasped it quickly and said
in the Crow language, "Long time ago," then paused--"long--time--ago,
many moons, you heap good to me and my braves."

"How many moons?" I asked.

He stopped and his mind was busy running over the many years, many
camp-fires, the wrongs he had sustained from the British Government
which compelled them to leave their homes and come to the United States.
With a sigh he held up