From those visible signs, and the tales of the old squaw and stories extant among other tribes, we find the Sheep Eaters were a strong, brave, peaceable race of people, clean morally and physically. Provident and inventive, excelling in all the Indian arts. They lived as brothers. No poor were ever known among them, all sharing alike except the chiefs, who had larger tepees and more robes that they might care for visitors. Death was meted out to the woman who broke her marriage vows, and after death she was condemned to live in darkness and never again to see the sun they worshipped. They never knew the use of alcohol in any form. It was left to the _proud, civilized whites_ to bring that curse to the Indians. This favored people never saw but the one white man, and he only brought death to their bodies, leaving their souls unashamed to face their Maker. It seems very fitting that this most perfect tribe of which we know should have lived out their little span of life among the most perfect surroundings, building their homes in the crags and rocks among those towering mountains, whose lofty heads are covered with perpetual snow, on whose sides great glaciers lie half hidden, like monsters of the deep. Dark stretches of timber fringe the canyons where the bald eagle, silent as the grave, seeks its prey. To the south the black forest clings to the shoulders of the mountains where the snow goes whirling across the peaks, along the table land, and into the valleys. Always and always the silent Rockies towering among the clouds on the one side and the majestic Big Horn on the other. Sentinel peaks, capped with the eternal snows, stand like hoary-headed giants. Great piles of God's masonry wall in this emerald vale with one ever-astounding, sometimes appalling, always changing vista of mountain, forest, river, lake, crest, gorge, and peak. Crouched in this empire of solemnity by night and grandeur by day, was the home of the Sheep Eaters. End of Project Gutenberg's The Sheep Eaters, by William Alonzo Allen