I will always think those Indians got even with me. That following spring I wanted to leave that part of the country, and I didn’t have a horse. So I got to talking to some Indians. They said they had a fine horse running in their bunch. It was a stray—nobody claimed it and I could have him. I made a date with them when they would corral their horses. I was there with my saddle. They showed me a beautiful big sorrel and told me to catch him, which I did. He trotted right up to me when I roped him and seemed very nice to saddle. I was wondering all the time why those Indians were so kind to me, but oh boy, when I mounted him I found out. After the first jump I never saw anything but a little piece of sorrel mane in front of the saddle. I have been bucked off a good many times and often thought I could have rode most of the horses if I had got a break, but there never was any doubt about that Indian gift horse—I never had a Chinaman’s chance. I saw several of those Indians in years afterwards. They would think awhile before they would remember me—they would laugh and make signs with their hands how the horse bucked me off. The Crow Indians’ name for me was the White Man Chews Tobacco—Masachele Opa Barusha. One time an old Crow Indian told me quite a story about the Tribe that I don’t believe many people know (and I have seen some evidence of the truth of his story). I was riding line for a cow outfit on the Crow Reservation and an old Crow Chief came riding into my camp one morning about daylight, and asked me for something to eat, as he said he was making a long ride on some important business. I knew him—he was the same Chief that pulled a knife on Chief Sitting Bull, grabbed him by the hair and made him smell of his feet. This old Chief’s white-man’s name was Crazy Head—his Indian name was Ah Shumoch Noch, which means “Curly Head.” His hair was curly (which is unusual for an Indian) and he had very thick lips, which made me think of the story the old Indian had told me. He said a great many snows ago, a Negro showed up among the Crows. Nobody knew where he came from or how he got there, but he lived with them for many years. The Crow name for a Negro is Masachele Sha Pit Cot (which means White Black Man). While this old Chief was enjoying his breakfast (and he was plenty hungry) I asked him in Indian if he didn’t have some Nigger blood in him, and it sure made him mad. I believe if he hadn’t been eating in my camp he would have done something to me, but he said “Barrett” in a very loud voice, which means NO, but I insisted that he must have a little Negro blood. Still his answer was NO, with an oath, but I kept on teasing him about his curly hair and thick lips. He finally stuck out the end of his little finger with his thumb on the other hand to measure with—ecosh cota, which meant about the size of a pin head. He sure hated a nigger.