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.
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.