Around the walls were bashful cowboys who had not the courage to ask a woman to dance, and breeds of all sorts and mixtures. It was hard to distinguish between Indians and whites. Among the spectators were elderly squaws in bright-colored Indian clothes, grandmothers looking after babies and children, while their daughters danced and had a good time. At midnight I helped Katoyísa feed the hungry people. We had sweet cake—an unusual luxury—cold beef and bread. The people wanted nourishing food. They always had a craving for meat, especially beef; it took the place of buffalo meat and they felt abused if they did not get it. We made tea in a great washboiler that nearly covered the stove. The people ate in relays; and we washed dishes in between. I helped Námo, a young Indian woman who had charge of the dishes; she was a great talker and good natured. After supper even the bashful cowboys limbered up; although some slipped out of sight, because they had not the courage to dance. But never have I seen a crowd of dancers with more dash and enthusiasm. After midnight only those who were experts in the square dance took the floor. Some had odd steps, like jigs, which they used at every chance. The dancers had no time to rest or sit down; and in their joy they stamped so hard the cabin was filled with dust. In the early hours of the morning, old women and children lay asleep on the floors. And outside in the shack, they lay so close, there was no room to step, or turn over without waking the others. At the height of the dance some women got excited and I heard exclamations of fear. They said they had seen a wild face look in at a window. They thought it was the Mad Indian—the murderer who came at night and killed people in the light. So they covered all the windows with blankets and shawls; and for a while no one was willing to open the door, or go out into the night. Perhaps somebody did look in. At the time I paid but little attention; Indian women are superstitious and have vivid imaginations. Besides, I thought the wild tales I heard of a “Mad Indian” might be a myth. But he was no myth. He turned out to be a real Indian, an outcast who had committed murder and was on the warpath—a menace to everybody in that country both Indian and white, seeking to kill as many people as he could before he himself had to die. Later I heard his story from one of the Indian Mounted Police who had captured him alive. CHAPTER XVI HUNTING ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOATS When the ducks and geese were flying south, Mad Wolf said the time had come to cut our winter firewood. So Little Creek, his son-in-law, and I went together to the mountains. We started soon after sunrise, with four powerful broncos harnessed to a timber wagon. Little Creek was a reckless and fearless driver. He stood on the axle between the front wheels and balanced himself skillfully, while I followed riding Kutenai, my saddle horse.