In the following winter--that of 1875 and 1876--I was in the woods of Minnesota west of Cloquet, accompanied by an Indian named Antoine, and, while breaking trail on snowshoes in the deep snow along an obscure road that had been cut through to Grand Rapids, on the Mississippi, I came to a small Indian tepee close by the side of the road. A little smoke was curling from its peak, and a piece of an old blanket was hanging over its entrance. Calling aloud, I heard a faint voice of a woman answering from within. Entering the wigwam, we found there an impoverished, half-clad, half-frozen, perishing squaw. She told us that her feet had been frozen so that she could not walk, and that her family had left her to die. She had food enough, and possibly fuel enough, to last her about two more days. I was at a loss to know what was the wisest and most humane thing to do. We were far in the woods, and away from every human inhabitant. It was as easy to proceed to Grand Rapids as it was to retrace our steps to Duluth. A decision was soon made, and that was, that we would cut and split, and bring inside the wigwam a large pile of good wood, with plenty of kindling, and would leave the poor woman supplies from our pack sacks, of things most suitable and most convenient for her to use, as whatever she did, must be done on her hands and knees. Having provided her with a liberal supply of rice, pork, crackers, some flour, sugar, tea, and a package of smoking tobacco--for all squaws smoke--besides melting snow until we had filled an old pail with water, we felt that she could keep herself alive and comfortable for several days, at least. I then took out of my pack, a new pair of North Star camping blankets, and cutting them in two, left one-half to provide additional warmth for the unfortunate squaw. As is the custom of her people when something much appreciated has been done for one of them, she took my hand and kissed it. Leaving her plenty of matches, we bade her good-by, and resumed our journey toward Grand Rapids. Once more on the trail, I asked Antoine how old he believed the squaw to be. He said maybe forty; I should have judged her to have been seventy, but no doubt I was mistaken, and the Indian's judgment was far better. Arriving at Grand Rapids, I wrote the authorities at Duluth, and at Fond du Lac Indian Reservation, telling them of the poor woman's situation and where she was located. I afterwards learned that she had been sent for, and brought out by team, and that she had been subsequently taken to her band of Indians. I have been told by different Indians, that the sick and the aged are sometimes abandoned when the band is very short of provisions, and when to take the helpless with them, would prove a great burden. CHAPTER XVIII. United States Land Sale at Duluth--Joe LaGarde.