ll your talking leaves good for? Why didn't
they tell you to stay in camp?"

"I didn't ask them. Besides, that isn't what they're good for."

"Not good for much, anyhow. I don't believe they can even cure the
rheumatism."

Poor Dolores had never heard the story of the squaw who had a tract
given her by a missionary, and who tied it on her sore foot, but that
was a good deal her idea of some of the uses of printing.

"No," said Rita, "I don't believe they're good for rheumatism."

"Anyhow," said Ni-ha-be, "the whole camp is getting ready to move.
Come, Rita, let's you and I ride on ahead."

"No you won't, not either of you. You'll stay near me now. If the
great chief wants you again, I must have you where I can find you."

The girls looked at one another, but there was no wisdom in a
rebellion. They had offended quite enough for one day.

"Ni-ha-be," said Rita, "we can keep close together. They won't go
fast, and we can look at the leaves all the way."

On an ordinary march a good many of the squaws would have had to go on
foot and carry their pappooses, and perhaps heavy loads besides; but
the orders of Many Bears prevented that this time. The poorest brave
in camp had a pony provided for his wife and children, and as many more
as were needed for all his baggage, for the chief was in a hurry, and
there was to be no straggling. His orders were to push on as fast as
possible until the squad of braves who had ridden ahead should find a
safe spot to camp in--one that could be more easily defended than the
exposed level they were leaving.

The idea of coming danger, too, was going around among the squaws
themselves, and they were in as great a hurry as Many Bears. They did
not know exactly what to be afraid of, but they did not feel any better
on that account, with such a swarm of little copper-colored children to
take care of.

Some ponies had more to carry and some had less, but there was one poor
little, long-eared, patient-looking mule who had more than his share.
There was no saddle on him, but where a saddle might have been sat a
very fat and dreadfully homely squaw, with a pappoose on her back, his
round head popping out, as if all he wanted was to look at the country
as they went along.

The squaw rode her mule after the fashion of her people, and that was
just as if she had been a brave instead of a squaw. But no brave in
all the band would have allowed a twelve-year-old boy to climb up in