The council disappointed us. In White Wolf we had found as fine-looking an Indian as ever murdered and stole upon his native continent. His people were first in war, first to break peace, and the last to keep it, their excuse being that the white man trespassed on their hunting grounds. We had rather expected that burly form to rise from his seat, and, with flashing eyes, utter then and there a flood of aboriginal eloquence: "White man, your people live where the sun rises, ours where it sets. When did you ever come to us hungry and be fed, or clothed and go away so," and so on _ad infinitum_. Instead of all this there was a tremendous smoking and grunting, more like a farmer's fumigation of hogs than one of those pipe-of-peace councils which I had so often studied on canvas and in books. I have often regretted since that our aborigines can not read. If they could only learn from the white man's literature what they ought to be, the contrast between it and what they really are would be so violent that it might make an impression, even upon an Indian. For a happy mingling of lies and truth our "big talk" could hardly be excelled. A reporter could have taken down the proceedings somewhat as follows: SCENE--Six Indians and as many white men in a ring. Postmaster Hall in the center, acting as interpreter. _Indian_--"Cheyenne love white man much (lie). Forty-six warriors all hungry (truth). Us good Indians" (lie). And so on, alternately. _Pale Brother_--"White man love Cheyenne. Got lots of food, but no whisky" (the latter a lie which almost choked the speaker). It would not interest the reader to know all the repetitions or nonsense uttered, and we spare him the infliction of even attempting to tell him. The Indians had for their object food, and they got it. The whites had for their object permanent peace, and did not get it. [Illustration: _BUREAU OF ILLUSTRATION BUFFALO_ WHITE WOLF AT HOME. "The red man is noble, big injun is me."] In due time the council broke up, and in an incredibly short time thereafter many of the Indians were reeling drunk. That White Wolf did not become equally so was owing altogether to his being a man of iron constitution. Any thing but metal, it seemed to me, must have been burnt out by the fiery draughts which we saw the noble chief take down. A tin cupful of "whisk," such as would have made the cork in a bottle tight, was tossed off without a wink. Sachem, who took notes, rendered White Wolf's speech at the council in verse, as follows: White brother, have pity; the White Wolf is poor, The skin of his belly is shrunk to his back; A gallon of whisky is good for a cure, If followed by plenty of "bacon and tack." The red man is noble, big Injun is me: Like berries all crimson and ready to pick, The scalps on my pole are a heap good to see-- Good medicine they when poor Injun is sick.