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on a brand, and guarding two crouching squaws.
The air is sharp, the time being mid-winter, and the plateau higher than Ben Nevis;. yet the two young women crouching on the ground are clothed in nothing but cotton rags.
“Pai-Ute?”
I ask, having lately met some members of his tribe in Salt Lake City, where the new developments of doctrine are seducing many of his people into joining the church of Latter Day Saints.
“Pai-Ute,” he says.
“ Your name?
”
“ Red Dog.”
“Smoke a cigar?”
Red Dog unslips a corner of his blanket, draws the wool about his throat, and lights the Indian weed; a luxury more tempting to his savage tastes than anything on earth except a drink of fire-water.
His squaws look up and smile, though with a shrinking air; an elder and a younger woman; each with Hat broad face and dark Mongolian eyes; one eighteen or nineteen, the other hardly fifteen, years of age.
“ Your squaws?
” we ask, the man, through one of the scouts, who hang about these Indian trails.
1875.
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