As if familiar with the dark cavern, he walked on with quick step for some hundred yards, the cave gradually descending, until he came out into a small valley on the other side of the hill. A well-worn path led across the valley. Following this, the old man skirted the base of the hill, and after a further walk of a mile suddenly came upon a rocky shelf. The scene that now met the view of the strange old man was a lovely valley spread out at his feet, for he was following a pathway that encircled a high hill. Through the valley ran a winding stream, upon both banks of which were a score of Indian wigwams. Through the open peaks of the wigwams the blue smoke curled lazily upward to mingle with the clouds above. Far above, the hilltops were painted in golden colors from the setting sun; but below, the valley was cast in shadow, for night was coming on. In the background of the scene, and close to the base of the hills upon either side of the valley, were hundreds of horses and cattle, grazing upon the rich grass that sprang up in wild luxuriance beneath their feet. Here and there squaws were to be seen hurrying to and fro with arms full of wood brought from the forest, and lying in idleness upon the banks of the stream were lazy warriors looking upon their wives preparing the evening meal and doing all the work. Groups of children skurried hither and thither in glee, and older ones, those youths who were aspiring to be mighty braves when their sun of manhood should rise, were swimming in the waters of the river, or practicing at targets with their bows and arrows. It was a strange and picturesque scene, one only met with upon the frontier of our own land. Yet the old man seemed to care nothing for it, as he hurried down the steep hillside. As he entered the camp, much respect was shown him by the Indians he met. Yet he noticed none of them, as he bent his way toward a large lodge near the center of the encampment. In front of this wigwam lay an Indian, reclining at length upon a bearskin. As the white man approached, he arose and greeted him. He was a warrior of striking and noble appearance, one of the noblest stripe of Indian braves, for his form was literally perfect, and his face almost handsome. His attire was also far better than that usually seen among red men, his leggings being handsomely bordered, as was also a hunting shirt of the finest dressed deerskin. A coronet of gorgeously dyed feathers surmounted his head, and in his belt was stuck an ivory-handled bowie knife, a tomahawk, ingeniously carved, and a revolver, while by his side lay a silver-mounted rifle. “The White Slayer is glad to see the Gray Chief,” said this Indian. “Will he enter the wigwam of his red brother?” The young warrior spoke with a dignity and politeness that seemed natural to him.