return. He and his squaw and his papoose must live. What should he do? Can
my friends tell?"

James Morris gave a sigh. "Honestly, White Buffalo, I cannot. If I could I
might solve the whole of this vexing question, and then, perhaps, we'd have
no war. But it doesn't seem right for the whites and the Indians to be
fighting all the time. It hurts one just as much as it hurts the other."

"My brother James does not tell the truth," said the Indian chief, somewhat
sadly. "It hurts the Indian far more than it hurts his white brother. White
Buffalo has eyes, and he is wise enough to see that the Indian cannot fight
the white man and win in the end. The red man may slay many, but in the end
he will lose. I know it, I feel it." And White Buffalo bowed his head.

"Do you look for an uprising soon?" questioned James Morris, after a long
pause.

"Not at once--the red men have not forgotten how they suffered during this
great war. But it will come--next summer, or the summer after. The red man
does not forget that he has suffered."

"Let us hope by next summer the trouble will be forgotten," came from James
Morris; and that was all he could say.

Christmas found the post buried deeply in snow, and hunting for the time
being was out of the question. The place was crowded, and white trappers
and Indians often spent the night in the stable with the horses. There was
an active demand upon James Morris' supplies and he could have disposed of
three times as many had he had them.