A band of Indians, almost naked and hideously painted, were leaping, shouting, beating drums and firing guns.

Out from the tents poured the rest of the band to meet them, eagerly inquiring into the cause of their excitement.
Soon fires were lighted and kettles put on, for the Indian's happiness is never complete unless associated with feasting, and the whole band prepared itself for a time of revelry.
As the girls stood peering out upon this terrible scene they became aware of the doctor standing at their side.
"Say, they seem to be cutting up rather rough, don't they ?" he said coolly.

"I think as a precautionary measure you had better step over into the other tent." Hastily gathering their belongings, they ran across with the doctor to his tent, from which they continued to gaze upon the weird spectacle before them.
About the largest fire in the center of the camp the crowd gathered, Chief Trotting Wolf in the midst, and were harangued by one of the returning braves who was evidently reciting the story of their experiences and whose tale was received with the deepest interest and was punctuated by mad cries and whoops.

The one English word that could be heard was the word "Police," and it needed no interpreter to explain to the watchers that the chief object of fury to the crowding, gesticulating Indians about the fire was the Policeman who had been the cause of their humiliation and disappointment.

In a pause of the uproar a loud exclamation from an Indian arrested the attention of the band.
Once more he uttered his exclamation and pointed to the tent lately occupied by the ladies.