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They cannot travel as fast as our squaws, but they will drive the buffalo out of the land. We must go out and fight them while our villages lie here close to the mountains. The wagon-soldiers cannot follow the women's pack-horses into the mountains."
"It is good," continued the Fire Eater. "The wagon-soldiers will not find a trail on the high hills. The snow would stop their wheels. They will dream that the Chis-chis-chash were made into birds and have flown away." The Fire Eater chuckled as he loaded his pipe. Then Big Hand: "I have heard, brother, that ponies passed the herders at the mouth of the canon last smoke.
Hither and yon through the valleys dragged the wagon-soldiers, while the Indians laughed at them from the hills. In the time of the yellow-grass the tribe had made a successful hunt and the sides of their lodges were piled high with dry meat. Their kettles would boil through this snow.
As it suited the individual tastes of the people, the lodges were placed in cozy places. When the snows fell the Indians forgot the wagon-soldiers, as they feasted and gossiped by their camp-fires. They felt secure in their eerie home, though the camp-cryer frequently passed, shouting: "Do not let your ponies wander down the canon and make trails for the Yellow-Eyes to see."
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