Though so trifling, the success of our first Buffalo hunt gave us
quite a social lift. The chiefs were equally surprised with the
whites, and when we prepared for a second expedition, Kiya sent
word that though he could not act as guide, I should ride his own
trained hunter, a horse that could run a trail like a hound, and
was without guile.

I am, always suspicious of a horse (or man) without guile.
I wondered what was the particular weakness of this exceptionally
trained, noble, and guileless creature. I have only one prejudice
in horseflesh--I do not like a white one. So, of course, when
the hunter arrived he was, white as marble, from mane to tail and
hoofs; his very eyes were of a cheap china colour, suggestive of
cataractine blindness. The only relief was a morbid tinge of faded
shrimp pink in his nostrils and ears. But he proved better than he
looked. He certainly did run tracks by nose like a hound, provided I
let him choose the track. He was a lively walker and easy trotter,
and would stay where the bridle was dropped, So I came to the
conclusion that Kiya was not playing a joke on me, but really had
lent me his best hunter, whose sepulchral whiteness I could see would
be of great advantage in snow time when chiefly one is supposed to
hunt.

Not only Kiya, but Pierre Squirrel, the head chief, seemed to harbour
a more kindly spirit. He now suddenly acquired a smattering of
English and a fair knowledge of French. He even agreed to lead us
through his own hunting grounds to the big Buffalo range, stipulating
that we be back by July 1, as that was Treaty Day, when all the
tribe assembled to receive their treaty money, and his presence as