When he got back “home,” as he called it, he found Tom had carved a sign, “Camp Kent,” on a piece of board, and nailed it to a tree by their tent. He also found Tom full of an exciting piece of news.
“There’s going to be a Blackfeet Indian pow-wow here at Many Glacier to-morrow,” he said, “and it’s going to end with a barbecue, which Big Bertha says is almost as good as a Hi-yu-Mulligan-potlatch.”
“As a what?” Joe demanded.
“No, not a what, a Hi-yu-Mulligan-potlatch,” Tom laughed. “Big Bertha says out in Washington, where he comes from, when they want to give the Indians a good time they give ’em a potlatch, which means a free feed, and a Mulligan potlatch is one where the free feed is Mulligan stew, and a Hi-yu-Mulligan-potlatch is just a jim-swizzler of a potlatch that makes an Indian yell, Hi-yu! Get it now?”
“I get it,” Joe laughed. “But what’s a pow-wow, and why’s it being held here?”
“I guess a pow-wow is short for an Indian good time, and it’s being held here to give the folks at the hotel something to look at—as if the mountains weren’t enough. The hotel is crammed full, and so are the chalets, and I had three people in every tepee last night. I’ve been doing nothing since you left but chop wood, and haul water, and air blankets.”
“Poor old Tom,” said Joe. “Well, I got twelve cartwheels in my jeans—feels like a ton o’ coal, too. That’ll help toward the autumn. Now I’ll help you get the camp ready for the hikers that are coming in to-night.”
“It’s all ready,” Tom answered. “The crowd last night got away early this morning. The Indians are going to get here this afternoon, and set up their tepees down on the flats below the falls. We’re going to walk down there now and see ’em come in, so hurry up and get yourself some grub. I’ve had mine. I was up at five to-day and couldn’t wait for your old bus to get in at one-thirty.”
“I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes,” said Joe, as he put some bacon in a pan.