We took an old Indian trail, which was known to Onesta. It led us across a plateau and into a hill country, where the sun shone in a clear sky and the heat was intense. As the day advanced, the sun beat down with ever-increasing heat. My thermometer registered ninety-eight degrees in the shade and a hundred and thirty in the sun. At mid-day we stopped on the shore of a lake, to let our horses feed on the rich grass. The women made a shelter from the sun by spreading canvas over a tripod of poles, with the sides raised for the wind to blow through. As we rested under our comfortable shelter, Onesta called my attention to swallows hovering over our horses to get hairs for lining their nests, and to grasshoppers flying high in the air, saying: “Their wings have no color until they fly into the sunlight; it makes them red, yellow, and black.” He taught me a song by which he made some sandpipers dance on the shore of the lake. He clapped his hands and sang: “Ik-sis-a-kuyi! Ik-sis-a-kuyi!” (Meat! Meat!) He showed me a wild rose bush that was covered with the webs of tent caterpillars; and made them dance by beating time with his hands and singing: “Ko-me-os-cha! Ko-me-os-cha!” (Worms! Worms!) At first the caterpillars lay perfectly still. But, after he sang a few moments, they began to wake up and move slowly. Then they all stood up and waved their heads to and fro, dancing as long as Onesta continued his song. When the heat had passed, we harnessed our horses and moved on, following a trail that led upwards toward the mountains. While making our way slowly, Onesta and Nitana began chanting a religious song in unison. I rode closer and joined them in their song. Then Onesta explained that it was customary to sing on entering a strange country, as a prayer to the Sun for a safe journey and for protection against the magical arts of its people. On this occasion, he said they were also praying for my success among the North Piegans. Finally, we gained the summit of a massive ridge of the prairie, which overlooked the country of the North Piegans—a broad river valley with green meadows and groves of cottonwood trees. On the undulating hillsides herds of cattle and horses were feeding. And, as far as the eye could reach, the river rolled eastward from the base of the Rockies, gleaming in the sunlight like a ribbon of silver. Nestled among the groves of green trees in the valley, I saw a number of white Indian tepees, with blue smoke rising from their tops. North lay the Porcupine Hills covered with forests of pine; west, the snow peaks of the mountains. Onesta said the hills were called “Porcupine,” because the bristling trees on their ridges look like the quills on a porcupine’s back.