By this time we were close to the village, and I observed that while the greater part of the lodges were very large and neat in their appearance, there was at one side a cluster of squalid, miserable huts.  I looked toward them, and made some remark about their wretched appearance.  But I was touching upon delicate ground.

“My squaw’s relations live in those lodges,” said Reynal very warmly, “and there isn’t a better set in the whole village.”

“Are there any chiefs among them?” asked I.

“Chiefs?” said Reynal; “yes, plenty!”

“What are their names?” I inquired.

“Their names?  Why, there’s the Arrow-Head.  If he isn’t a chief he ought to be one.  And there’s the Hail-Storm.  He’s nothing but a boy, to be sure; but he’s bound to be a chief one of these days!”

Just then we passed between two of the lodges, and entered the great area of the village.  Superb naked figures stood silently gazing on us.

“Where’s the Bad Wound’s lodge?” said I to Reynal.

“There, you’ve missed it again!  The Bad Wound is away with The Whirlwind.  If you could have found him here, and gone to live in his lodge, he would have treated you better than any man in the village.  But there’s the Big Crow’s lodge yonder, next to old Red-Water’s.  He’s a good Indian for the whites, and I advise you to go and live with him.”

“Are there many squaws and children in his lodge?” said I.

“No; only one squaw and two or three children.  He keeps the rest in a separate lodge by themselves.”

So, still followed by a crowd of Indians, Raymond and I rode up to the entrance of the Big Crow’s lodge.  A squaw came out immediately and took our horses.  I put aside the leather nap that covered the low opening, and stooping, entered the Big Crow’s dwelling.  There I could see the chief in the dim light, seated at one side, on a pile of buffalo robes.  He greeted me with a guttural “How, cola!” I requested Reynal to tell him that Raymond and I were come to live with him.  The Big Crow gave another low exclamation.  If the reader thinks that we were intruding somewhat cavalierly, I beg him to observe that every Indian in the village would have deemed himself honored that white men should give such preference to his hospitality.

The squaw spread a buffalo robe for us in the guest’s place at the head of the lodge.  Our saddles were brought in, and scarcely were we seated upon them before the place was thronged with Indians, who came crowding in to see us.  The Big Crow produced his pipe and filled it with the mixture of tobacco and shongsasha, or red willow bark.  Round and round it passed, and a lively conversation went forward.  Meanwhile a squaw placed before the two guests a wooden bowl of boiled buffalo meat, but unhappily this was not the only banquet destined to be inflicted on us.  Rapidly, one after another, boys and young squaws thrust their heads in at the opening, to invite us to various