games, younger ones romped boisterously, dodging in and out from the lodges with mocking cries. Sometimes a papoose whimpered hungrily, but for the most part the little creamy-skinned, big-eyed babies were as silent as though Nature had denied them tongues. Smoke began to appear above the tops of the wigwams, ascending straight in air like blue pencils of vapor. More often, though, the evening fires were built in front of the wigwam doors. Women, young and old, busied themselves with the stone or metal pots in which nearly everything was cooked. At the nearer wigwam an older squaw was cutting a piece of blood-dripping flesh into thin strips, chanting a song softly as she worked. Her fire was no more than a few small fagots enclosed between two flat stones that supported the iron kettle. The strips of meat were dropped into the kettle as cut and to David they looked far from appetizing. He presumed that there was water in the pot, and after a while, as he watched idly, a faint steam arose from it and proved him right. The squaw went into the wigwam and presently returned holding something that looked like gray meal in her cupped hands. This she dropped slowly into
