smoke, standing on the
plain at our very feet.

I entered the lodge of my host. His squaw instantly brought me food
and water, and spread a buffalo robe for me to lie upon; and being much
fatigued, I lay down and fell asleep. In about an hour the entrance of
Kongra-Tonga, with his arms smeared with blood to the elbows, awoke me.
He sat down in his usual seat on the left side of the lodge. His squaw
gave him a vessel of water for washing, set before him a bowl of boiled
meat, and as he was eating pulled off his bloody moccasins and placed
fresh ones on his feet; then outstretching his limbs, my host composed
himself to sleep.

And now the hunters, two or three at a time, began to come rapidly in,
and each, consigning his horses to the squaws, entered his lodge with
the air of a man whose day's work was done. The squaws flung down the
load from the burdened horses, and vast piles of meat and hides were
soon accumulated before every lodge. By this time it was darkening fast,
and the whole village was illumined by the glare of fires blazing all
around. All the squaws and children were gathered about the piles of
meat, exploring them in search of the daintiest portions. Some of these
they roasted on sticks before the fires, but often they dispensed with
this superfluous operation. Late into the night the fires were still
glowing upon the groups of feasters engaged in this savage banquet
around them.

Several hunters sat down by the fire in Kongra-Tonga's lodge to talk
over the day's exploits. Among the rest, Mene-Seela came in. Though he
must have seen full eighty winters, he had taken an active share in the
day's sport. He boasted that he had killed two cows that morning, and
would have killed a third if the dust had not blinded him so that he had
to drop his bow and arrows and press both hands against his eyes to stop
the pain. The firelight fell upon his wrinkled face and shriveled figure
as he sat telling his story with such inimitable gesticulation that
every man in the lodge broke into a laugh.

Old Mene-Seela was one of the few Indians in the village with whom I
would have trusted myself alone without suspicion, and the only one from
whom I would have received a gift or a service without the certainty
that it proceeded from an interested motive. He was a great friend to
the whites. He liked to be in their society, and was very vain of the
favors he had received from them. He told me one afternoon, as we were
sit