Young Deerfoot, the son of a great warrior of the Blackfeet, Sleeping Bear, prided himself on being one of the strongest of the tribe’s young braves. While growing into young manhood, he had won many honors in his tribe as a warrior and a great hunter. Blind Dog was another young brave about Deerfoot’s age. The son of Black Dog, he also had become quite famous among the Blackfeet for his honors in war and hunting. Both young braves were guarding the tribe’s horses, one very warm summer evening as the chiefs of the Blackfeet were gathered in the center of the village around the blazing campfires. The chiefs had met to talk of tribal problems and to plan ahead for fall and winter. At this time, life had been unusually peaceful on the plains. There had been some horse stealing and a few occasional skirmishes among small parties of raiders from different tribes. Outside of that, there had not been much excitement. As the chiefs sat around the fire, Blind Dog and Deerfoot were taking their job of standing guard over the horses very seriously. The quiet was broken by a noise off to one side of the herd of horses. Deerfoot signaled silently to Blind Dog to draw near so that they might speak. When Blind Dog had reached Deerfoot’s side the two crouched low behind the horses, and Deerfoot whispered that he had heard a noise slightly to the west of the herd. The two braves crept forward on their hands and knees, keeping the horses between themselves and whatever had made the noise. The horses began moving uneasily as the two young braves drew closer to the spot from which the noise had come. Deerfoot stopped abruptly. He slapped Blind Dog’s shoulder and began to laugh. Not two paces from them was a small mongrel dog which had wandered down among the horses seeking a cool place in which to lie and rest for a while. When Blind Dog saw what had amused Deerfoot so much, he laughed too, because they had been so alarmed by a dog. “If it were not so quiet tonight,” Deerfoot remarked, “we would not have been so worried by anything so unimportant as a puppy.” “Yes,” Blind Dog agreed, “it has been much too quiet. We have not had much excitement. Things have been far too peaceful.” “Do you wish to have a war on your hands, Blind Dog?” Deerfoot asked with a smile. “Well, it would be a very welcome change from horse herd duty at night, and repairing bridles and broken weapons in the daytime.” “You are getting restless, my friend.” Deerfoot spoke soberly now. “That is not good. When one gets restless, one becomes careless. That can be dangerous.”