Autumn nights on the upper Missouri
river in Montana are indescribably beau-
tiful, and under their spell imagination is a
constant companion to him who lives in wil-
derness, lending strange, weird echoes to the
voice of man or wolf, and unnatural shapes
in shadow to commonplace forms.

The moon had not yet climbed the distant
mountain range to look down on the humbler
lands when I started for War Eagle's lodge; and
dimming the stars in its course, the milky-
way stretched across the jewelled sky. "The
wolf's trail," the Indians call this filmy streak
that foretells fair weather, and to-night it
promised much, for it seemed plainer and
brighter than ever before.

"How--how!" greeted War Eagle, making
the sign for me to be seated near him, as I
entered his lodge. Then he passed me his
pipe and together we smoked until the chil-
dren came.

Entering quietly, they seated themselves in
exactly the same positions they had occupied
on the previous evenings, and patiently waited
in silence. Finally War Eagle laid the pipe
away and said: "Ho! Little Buffalo Calf,
throw a big stick on the fire and I will tell