TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. 131 



Once more we found ourselves on the Crow reserva- 

 tion,, near the Rosebud River, the waters of which are filled 

 with mountain trout. The hills were clothed with bunch 

 grass, whereon ponies and cattle were roaming by thou- 

 sands, or basking in the mild Indian summer weather. The 

 place was a picture of calm content. The grass swayed to 

 and fro in the soft September wind. On every mound 

 were the wily warriors of the tribe, gazing with satisfaction 

 upon the scene, their red blankets lending an additional 

 charm to the view as they strolled up and down, singing 

 war chants, now and then stopping to dance to their own 

 music. 



Looking upon them in this peaceful attitude one could 

 hardly believe them to be so cruelly savage by nature. 



The smoke of our campfires was soon curling slowly 

 upward into the mountain. The cattle had satisfied their 

 hunger and were lying down to rest. A supper of dried elk 

 and trout was soon prepared. It was then that the noble 

 red men came over to smoke the pipe of peace with their 

 pale-faced brothers,, to eat of our venison and trout, and 

 to drink our coffee. Our hospitality filled their hearts with 

 peace, and made them feel that it was well to be at peace 

 with the "masta scheely" (white man). We entertained 

 three of them on this evening, and their faces fairly glowed 

 with brotherly love as they looked upon the repast we spread 

 before them. Our red friends distanced us in the race, how- 

 ever. We chewed our meat while they disposed of theirs 

 in a way known only to themselves. When the last scrap 

 had disappeared, they gave us a hearty hand-shake and de- 

 parted. 



At Deer Creek, on the Yellowstone, we stopped for a 

 few days. It was surely Deer Creek, for we jumped three 

 deer in camp before our teams were unhooked. I fired at 



