when that broad and unfenced plain would be converted into homes
for hundreds of the pale-faced race.

We were met on the outskirts of the village by White Horse, Chief
of the Comanches, who, being an intimate friend of Uncle Kit,
shook hands with us and conducted us to his own wick-i-up. There
we unpacked the animals and piled up our goods, and White Horse
detailed an Indian to guard the packs day and night.

After our horses had been picketed out to grass, the Chief took us
into his lodge to dine with him, and here again we had boiled dog
and the peace smoke.

White Horse insisted upon our being his guests until morning, it
being about noon when we arrived, and as our horses were much
jaded we decided to give them the advantage of such a rest.

The Comanche Chief was most exceedingly hospitable, in his way,
and would not allow us to eat of our own provisions, but insisted
upon our eating with him, and "trotted" out the best "grub" he
had.

After breakfast the next morning our horses were brought in by the
Indians, who also helped us to pack, and we struck the trail
again, accompanied by White Horse and his daughter, who traveled
with us all that day and camped with us at night.

That evening Uncle Kit killed a fine buffalo calf, and I thought
it the best meat I had ever eaten--even better than dog.