ALONG FOUR-FOOTED TRAILS 



trembling and crying, I crawled out from a 

 buffalo robe that had been thrown over me by 

 the friendly hands of the great Sioux Indian 

 warrior Sitting Bull to whom I had often 

 given slices of home-made bread spread with 

 sorghum, of which he seemed very fond. There 

 he stood with one of his squaws, who had car- 

 ried the robe, beside him. They grunted and 

 jumped about me as I was told the robe was to 

 be mine. There were many characters and 

 figures stained on the inside of the robe. These 

 Sitting Bull explained represented a war be- 

 tween his people and another tribe of Indians. 

 He looked at the old buffalo wallow, then at 

 the bones of the old bull at the bottom of the 

 Gap. Then he stood up and looked off across 

 the prairie. With a firm, set face he pulled his 

 blanket tightly around him as he said " No 

 more buffalo for my people, no lands ; white 

 man take all." Then he stalked down the hill 

 to our house followed by the squaw and seemed 

 much amused as he watched a half-breed boy 

 who with myself was stumbling along under the 

 weight of the large buffalo robe in an effort to 

 carry it home. 



C'36] 



