of cavalry drilling on the open field to the north
gave evidence of active service, and as I studied the mingled huts and
tepees of the village, I realized that I had arrived in time to witness
some part of the latest staging of the red man's final stand.

Reporting at once to the agent, Major George Stouch, I found him to be a
veteran officer of the regular army "On Special Duty," a middle-aged,
pleasant-faced man of unassuming dignity whose crooked wrist (caused by
a bullet in the Civil War) gave him a touch of awkwardness; but his eyes
were keen, and his voice clear and decisive.

"The plans of the cattlemen have been momentarily checked," he said,
"but they are still bitter, and a single pistol-shot may bring renewed
trouble. The Cheyennes, as you know, are warriors."

He introduced me to Captain Cooper, in command of the troopers, and to
Captain Reed, Commander of the Infantry, who invited us to join his
mess, an invitation which we gladly accepted.

Cooper was a soldier of wide experience, a veteran of the Civil War, and
an Indian fighter of distinction. But his Lieutenant, a handsome young
West Pointer named Livermore, interested me still more keenly, for he
was a student of the sign language and had been at one time in command
of an experimental troop of red "rookies." Like Major Stouch he was a
broad-minded friend of all primitive peoples, and his experiences and
stories were of the greatest value to me.

With the aid of Major Stouch I won the confidence of White Bull, Two
Moon, Porcupine, American Horse and other of the principal Cheyennes,
and one of the Agency policemen, a fine fellow called Wolf Voice, became
my interpreter. Though half-Cheyenne and half-Assiniboin, he spoke
English well, and manifested a marked sense of humor. He had served one
summer as guide to Frederick Remington, and had some capital stories
concerning him. "Remington fat man--too heavy on pony. Him 'fraid
Injuns sure catch him," he said with a chuckle. "Him all-time carry
box--take pictures. Him no warrior."

For two weeks I absorbed "material" at every pore, careless of other
duties, thinking only of this world, avid for the truth, yet selecting
my facts as every artist must, until, at last, measurably content I
announced my intention to return to the railway. "We have tickets to
Seattle," I said to Stouch, "and we must make use of them."

"I'm sorry to have you go," he replied, "but if you must go I'll send
Wolf Voice with y