f a newspaper of which the government had
record. From the Department of the Interior, from the Land Office, from
other newspapers congratulations poured in. It seems to me that some
sort of medal was awarded to us for that.

It wasn't the record which mattered, of course. To us the publication of
these notices signified that the settlers had stuck it out with parched
throats to get their deeds; that some 14,000 acres of wasteland had
passed into private units in one week's time.

It meant endless work. Type, numbers, checking, straining eyes and
nerves beyond endurance. But it also meant (for that one lot) over $400
income for the newspaper. Proof money had been coming in for several
weeks. Every mail brought long heavy envelopes from the Land Office,
containing proof applications made there. From among the homesteaders we
hired amateur typesetters to help out, and anybody who happened to be
handy turned the press; on occasion we resorted to old Indian warriors,
and once to a notorious cattle rustler.

And all this time we watched the sky for rain and skimmed the green scum
from the dam water to drink. Looking up from the type one morning, I saw
an old Indian standing before me, old Porcupine Bear. Slipping in on
moccasined feet, an Indian would appear before one without warning. At
first this sudden materializing at my elbow had alarmed me, but I had
long grown accustomed to it.

Old Porcupine Bear was a savage-looking character--one of the very old
warriors who seldom left camp. One never knew how old some of these aged
Indians were, and many of them did not know themselves how many seasons
they had lived. This old man, we figured, must be a hundred years old.

"Will there be rain, Porcupine?" I asked him. "Will you hold your Rain
Dance soon?"

The deep wrinkles in his leathery face were hard set as if from pain.
His coal-black hair, streaked with gray and hanging loose over his
shoulders, looked as if it had not been combed for days.

"_To-wea_," he wailed. "_My to-wea_ (my woman). Him sick. The fever.
Goin' die." He dropped his face into the palm of his hard hand and let
it lie there motionless in demonstration of her passing. He wanted to
get a box like white squaws had, the boxes in which they went to the
Happy Hunting Ground.

He was on the road to Pierre for a coffin. Others of the tribe, we
gathered, had put in money to help buy it. He opened a beaded sack and
showed us. There was enough to buy a pret