Thus with Yellow Bird I entered into the life of the people. I wanted to see them natural and without restraint. With them I talked not of my life in civilization, but of things of their everyday life, of horses and cattle, hunting and wild animals, dancing and ceremonies. In this way I became one of them, and they saw I was not critical of them nor of their ways. After we stacked eighty tons of hay at the scout’s ranch, Yellow Bird and I rode the range after stray horses and cattle. We skirted the base of the mountains, along the foothills and edge of the forest, until we came to a well-worn trail, which led to an open park far back in the mountains. Many cattle were there, seeking refuge from the swarms of flies and mosquitoes on the grass-covered prairies. Then we found a herd of mares and geldings. Their leader, a fiery young stallion, tried to drive us off. But we rounded them up with the cattle and drove them back to the ranch, feeding them salt, that they might not again stray away. When we wanted to break a new team for the wagon, we drove that wild herd of range horses into the corral and lassoed a roan and a three-year-old sorrel. We tied them with ropes while we put on the harness, then hitched them to the wagon and took blankets and provisions; we knew not how far they might run. At the start the broncos bucked and plunged; then ran and tried to tear themselves loose from the rattling wagon, bounding over rocks, swinging as though it would turn over. After running many miles, our broncos broke into a stampede so wild that Yellow Bird turned them up a butte and put the brakes on hard. They galloped up one side of that steep butte and down the other, our wagon plunging over ruts, stones, and badger holes, and into a swamp in the valley of a stream, where they sank deep into soft muck and the wagon went down over the hubs. But they soon freed themselves, and, with their sides covered with foamy sweat, they pulled us through to firm ground. Then they ran again and did not stop, until we were far out on the open plains. That night we tied up our wild team and slept peacefully under the wagon, twenty-five miles from the ranch. Sometimes in the evening, after our work at the ranch, we saddled our horses and rode down the river to see two sisters who were home from school, Katoyísa and Nínake. Their father, Lone Wolf, was dead, and they lived alone with their mother, a quiet, pleasant-faced woman. Their log cabin of three rooms had low ceilings, and walls of hewn logs chinked and plastered, all whitewashed and clean. The floor was spotless and covered with skins of wolf, bear, and mountain goat; in the windows were grasses and ferns and wild flowers, and a dish of fragrant red apples on a table.