It was the way of every Sioux mother to adjust her household
effects on such dogs and pack ponies as she could muster from day
to day, often lending one or two to accommodate some other woman
whose horse or dog had died, or perhaps had been among those
stampeded and carried away by a raiding band of Crow warriors. On
this particular occasion, the mother of our young Sioux brave,
Matohinshda, or Bear-Shedding-His-Hair (Gall's childhood name),
intrusted her boy to an old Eskimo pack dog, experienced and
reliable, except perhaps when unduly excited or very thirsty.

On the day of removing camp the caravan made its morning march
up the Powder River. Upon the wide table-land the women were
busily digging teepsinna (an edible sweetish root, much used by
them) as the moving village slowly progressed. As usual at such
times, the trail was wide. An old jack rabbit had waited too long
in hiding. Now, finding himself almost surrounded by the mighty
plains people, he sprang up suddenly, his feathery ears
conspicuously erect, a dangerous challenge to the dogs and the
people.

A whoop went up. Every dog accepted the challenge. Forgotten
were the bundles, the kits, even the babies they were drawing or
carrying. The chase was on, and the screams of the women reechoed
from the opposite cliffs of the Powder, mingled with the yelps of
dogs and the neighing of horses. The hand of every man was against
the daring warrior, the lone Jack, and the confusion was great.

When the fleeing one cleared the mass of his enemies, he
emerged with a swiftness that commanded respect and gave promise