She turned her eyes away at the question, and sat for a long time with that vacant look on her face as though seeing all her past; then suddenly she turned, and looking squarely at me, she said, "Me Red Arrow's squaw." I was amazed, but could not doubt her word, as she had told me the truth so far as I had investigated. It seemed impossible that this most haggard of old women could have been the most beautiful girl of her tribe. But a hundred and fifteen years of life can change much, even the beautiful curves of the human body and the roses on the cheek and lip. A hundred and fifteen years! But this was the chance of a lifetime, I must not let it slip away while I dreamed. "Where did your people go?" I asked; "what became of your tribe?" "One beautiful day," she replied, "when sun warm and earth green, white man got lost and his ponies come into our camp. White man very sick. Medicine man put him in big tepee and take care of him, give him much bath in hot water. Man got very red like Indian man, face much all over spots. By and by he die. Then sickness all over camp. Sheep Eater run off in forest and die. Some run to other villages, they all die. Sheep Eater all much scared and run away. Many tepee standing alone, all dead inside. Red Eagle die, Red Arrow die, me no die, me very much scare, go off in mountains, eat berries, cherries, root. Me find many Sheep Eater dead in woods. By and by Sheep Eaters not many. They go to other Indian tribes down in valley on river, where much big water runs, and eat heap buffalo, ride pony, marry heap squaw. Sheep Eater have one squaw, other Indians many. Then Sheep Eater no more, no more papoose, no more squaw, all gone. Cold winds go, spring come, wild geese come back to lakes. Sheep Eater no come back, all gone. Tepee rot, rain, wind, snow, sun, on bones, on blanket, tepees, skins, bows, arrows. By and by all gone too. Indian no go there long time, many moon." So passed away the proudest race of Indians that ever lived on earth. They left behind no trace of history except the Paint Rocks among the canyons of Wyoming, near Basin City, and in Crandle Creek Basin, Montana, on which we might read of a thousand historical deeds if we could but find the key. These, and the great shrine wheel on Bald Mountain, the sheep pens where the wary sheep were caught, and here and there along the mountain trails, stone blinds behind which the hunter lay in ambush for game, are all that is left to remind us of a tribe now extinct.