one hand, and with the other hand pulled down
three fingers, saying, "Ten, ten, ten."

I gave him the sign of correct, then his face brightened, and as the
boys gathered around us, he said, "Do you know who it is?"

"Yes," I replied, "I know you, you are Little Bear, the chief of the
Cree Nation." He held up his hands and began making rapid signs. "It was
you," he said, "who were our friend when our braves were arrested for
killing buffalo on Razor Creek."

"Yes," I replied.

"We never forget our friends," said he. He then gave me a beautiful
peace pipe. The stem was two feet long, with animals engraved on it; and
the bowl was made from Minnesota pipe-stone rock, inlaid with silver.

Our camp fire was going, and we all sat around it and smoked the pipe of
peace, which is done as follows: The pipe is filled with the bark of a
red willow, and when lighted is handed to the highest or head chief. He
takes one or two long whiffs; then, as he raises his head and blows the
smoke in clouds toward the heavens and the Great Spirit, he passes the
pipe to his guest on the right. This is continued until the pipe is
empty, and all is done with the greatest reverence toward the Great
Spirit.

After the peace smoke, Little Bear, with his squaw and his son, took
dinner with us. We had fresh venison, potatoes, onions, hot pancakes and
maple syrup, canned pineapple and coffee. Little Bear ate a hearty
dinner and said it was good, and to meet friends made him very happy.

After the meal I took some pictures of the rocks, and Little Bear asked
me what I wanted them for. I told him those marks were a history of an
ancient tribe of people.

"Yes," he said, "many, many, moons. Our tribe knew nothing of them.
Long, maybe so, heap years, much old squaw live with Mountain Crows.
Crows call her 'Under-The-Ground.' She tell much of little folks way up
mountain. Much eat Big Horn sheep. Much pray sun and heap Great Spirit.
Old squaw say, little squaw much good face, all time good, bucks no
fight, yes."

I told him I had been upon the Medicine and Bald mountains and had seen
their shrine wheel, and where they had lived in the Big Horn mountains.
I told him I had also been far up Clark's Fork, where their sheep pens
were, "Yes," I said, "they are all gone. Great chief, Pretty Eagle, and
I were old friends, and he told me all about the little Indians, their
bows and arrows, and many things the old squaw had told him about their
lives on the