My husband had spread a heavy bull-skin robe over the travois basket and set me on it, with another skin folded under me for a cushion. Through holes in the edge of the bull skin Son-of-a-Star passed a lariat; and when I was seated, with my baby in my arms and my robe belted snugly about us, my husband drew the lariat, drawing the bull skin about my knees and ankles. The day was windy and cold, and the bull skin kept the chill air from me and my babe.
Our leaders had chosen for our winter camp a place called Round Bank, on a small stream named Bark Creek. There were no trees here for building earth lodges, so we camped in our tepees, pitching them in a hollow, to shelter them from the wind. The ground was frozen so that we could not peg our tents to the ground, but laid stones around the edges of the tent covers. Such was our older-fashioned way. We did not use wooden tent pegs much until after we got iron axes.
My mothers fetched dry grass into our tent for our beds, and made a fire under the smoke hole. A tepee was kept warm with a rather small fire, if it was well sheltered from the wind.
Ours was a big tent, for we had a big family. With my two half brothers, Bear’s Tail and Wolf Chief, and their wives; and Red Kettle, Full House, and Flies Low, younger sons of Red Blossom and Strikes-Many Woman, we numbered fourteen in all. This was a large number for one tent. Ten were as many as a tepee usually sheltered. Every member of the family had his own bed, where he slept at night and sat in the daylight hours.
My little son was ten days old the second day we were in winter camp; and, though we were hardly well settled, I found time to make ready his naming feast. Having filled a wooden bowl with venison and boiled dried green corn—foods I knew well were to his liking—I set it before Small Ankle.
“I want you to name your grandson,” I said to him.
Small Ankle ate, thinking the while what name he should give my son. Then he arose and took my baby tenderly in his arms, saying, “I name him Tsakahka Sukkee,[30] Good Bird.” Small Ankle’s gods were birds, and the name was a kind of prayer that they remember and help my little son.
[30] Tsä käh´ kä Sŭk´ kēē
Winter passed without mishap to us. We had found no buffaloes on the Yellowstone; but our hunters thrice discovered small herds near our camp and brought in meat; and a good many deer were killed.