Lou Chamreau was of French and Indian blood, chiefly Crow Indian. For twenty years he had been trading out of Pierre, Dakota, among the western tribes. He spoke French and Crow perfectly, he knew a little Sioux, and he was quite proficient in the universal Sign Language. Lou had lost money on the July horse-race, and was quite ready to play the white man's game. On a certain afternoon in the latter part of August the trader might have been seen driving a very rickety wagon along the rough trail through the Badlands twenty miles to the eastward of Fort Ryan. Much hard luck had pursued him, if one might judge by the appearance of his outfit and from his story. In his extremity his teamster had left him and he was travelling alone. It was just as he reached the boulder-strewn descent into Yellowbank Creek that the climax came. The wagon upset and, falling some twenty feet, was lodged between the cutbanks in very bad shape. The horses were saved though the giving way of the harness; and having hobbled and turned them out to graze, Lou mounted a butte to seek for sign of help. The sun was low in the west now; and across the glowing sky he noted a thread of smoke. Within a few minutes it had been his guide to an Indian tepee--a solitary tepee in this lone and little-known canyon of the Yellowbank--and entering, he recognized an old acquaintance. After sitting and smoking, he told of his troubles and asked the Red man to come and help get the wagon out of the gully. The Indian made the signs: "Yes, at sunrise." Chamreau smoked for a time, then said: "I'm afraid I'll lose the 'fire water' in that keg. It may be leaking under the wagon." To which the Sioux warrior said: "Let us go now." The keg was found intact, and to obviate all risk, was brought to the Indian camp. Chamreau deferred opening it as long as he could, so that it was midnight before the "Cowboy's delight" was handed round, and by three or four in the morning the camp was sunken in a deadly stupor. According to the plan, Chamreau was to take a brand from the lodge and, in the black night outside, make a vivid zigzag in the air a few times, when his plot was obviously a success. But he became so deeply interested in giving realism to his own share of the spree that he forgot about everything else, and the rest of the scheme was omitted, so far as he was concerned. But with the dim dawn there arrived in camp a couple of horsemen, one an Indian. The camp was dead. With the exception of a dog at the doorway and a horse in the corral, there was none to note their arrival. The dog growled, barked and sneaked aside. The Crow Indian hurled a stone with such accuracy that the dog accepted the arrivals as lawful, and sat down, afar off, to think it over.