erive more pleasure in
seeing her drink his portion than in drinking it himself. Consequently,
when she went out to mount her horse her steps were a little unsteady,
over which the chief laughed heartily.

It was with the greatest relief I saw them ride away. They certainly had
furnished entertainment, but it was of a kind that would satisfy one for
a long time. I was afraid they might come for dinner again the following
day, but they did not.

Powder-Face thought that the pony Cheyenne was not a good enough horse
for me, so the morning after he was here an Indian, called Dog, appeared
with a very good animal, large and well gaited, that the chief had sent
over, not as a present, but for a trade.

We let poor Cheyenne go back to the Indians, a quantity of sugar,
coffee, and such things going with him, and now I have a strawberry-roan
horse named Powder-Face.

Chief Powder-Face, who is really not old, is respected by everyone,
and has been instrumental in causing the Arapahoe nation to cease
hostilities toward white people. Some of the chiefs of lesser rank have
much of the dignity of high-born savages, particularly Lone Wolf and his
son Big Mouth, both of whom come to see us now and then. Lone Wolf is no
longer a warrior, and of course no longer wears a scalp lock and strings
of wampum and beads, and would like to have you believe that he has ever
been the white man's friend, but I suspect that even now there might
be brought forth an old war belt with hanging scalps that could tell
of massacre, torture, and murder. Big Mouth is a war chief, and has the
same grand physique as Powder-Face and a personality almost as striking.
His hair is simply splendid, wonderfully heavy and long and very glossy.
His scalp lock is most artistic, and undoubtedly kept in order by a
squaw.

The picture of the two generations of chiefs is unique and rare. It
shows in detail the everyday dress of the genuine blanket Indians as we
see them here. Just how it was obtained I do not know, for Indians
do not like a camera. We have daily visits from dozens of so-called
friendly Indians, but I would not trust one of them. Many white people
who have lived among Indians and know them well declare that an Indian
is always an Indian; that, no matter how fine the veneering civilization
may have given him, there ever lies dormant the traits of the savage,
ready to spring forth without warning in acts of treachery and fiendish
cruelty.

CIMARRON RE