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and got where I could see
into a lodge, and I saw one buck Indian
crawling in a circle, with bucks and squaws around him,
and another Indian
was chanting a weird, wild song. I took it
to be some sort of ceremony, but did not understand its meaning.
As time passed and the Utes
gave no sign of breaking camp, and the grass
was getting short because of the large herds of horses they had,
I asked Piah to move camp.
Piah said, "This old Indian campground,
for long, long, time. You move." I said, "Indian ponies
eat all the grass. You move
over on Willow Gulch. Good grass there."
Piah said, "No. You go Willow Gulch. This old Ute campground."
I told him I would write
the Indian agent if he did not leave.
"All right, you write." Piah said. In a few days
I had the Agent's letter,
telling Piah to move. "He say that?"
Piah says. "Yes. Here is the letter." "All right, Ute go."
And in a jiff y
they had broken camp and gone,
trailing their teepee poles behind their horses, as is their custom.
A year or two later,
no more Agency permits were granted,
and no more Utes troubled any ranchman on the plains.'