Almost before the Chief had breakfast started the next morning Smolley
stepped into the scene and took a prominent seat near the steaming
coffeepot. "You arrive early," I remarked. "Now how could you know that
breakfast was so near ready?" This last a trifle sarcastically, I fear.
"Huh, me, I sleep here," pointing to the side of a rock not ten feet
from my own downy bed. That settled me for keeps. I subsided and just
gazed with a fatal hypnotism at the flapjacks disappearing down his
ample gullet. It was fatal, for while I was spellbound the last one
disappeared and I had to make myself some more or go without breakfast.
When Smolley had stilled the first fierce pangs of starvation he pulled
a pair of moccasins out of the front of his dirty shirt and tossed them
to me. (The gesture had somewhat the appearance of tossing a bone to an
angry dog.) Anyway the dog was appeased. The moccasins had stiff rawhide
soles exactly shaped to fit my foot, and the uppers were soft brown
buckskin beautifully tanned. They reached well above the ankles and
fastened on the side with three fancy silver buttons made by a native
silversmith. A tiny turquoise was set in the top of each button. I
marveled at the way they fitted, until the Chief admitted that he had
given Smolley one of my boudoir slippers for a sample. Eventually the
other slipper went to a boot manufacturer and I became the possessor of
real hand-made cowboy boots.

Breakfast disposed of, we mounted and went in search of a rug factory,
that being the initial excuse for the journey. A mile or two away we
found one in operation. The loom consisted of two small cottonwood trees
with cross-beams lashed to them, one at the top and the other at the
bottom. A warp frame with four lighter sticks forming a square was
fastened within the larger frame. The warp was drawn tight, with the
threads crossed halfway to the top. Different-colored yarns were wound
on a short stick, and with nimble fingers a squaw wove the pattern.