Where there is no whiskey there is rarely any quarrel.

The pure mountain stream supplied them with their health-giving beverage.
In a few days everything was cosey and comfortable around them.

During the months of December and January, and until the middle of February, while wintry blasts swept the hills, warmth, abundance and friendliness reigned in these sheltered, cheerful huts in a Rocky Mountain valley.
There was one exciting event which disturbed the serenity of this winter encampment.
A band of Blackfeet Indians had cautiously dogged their footsteps, watching for an opportunity to stampede their horses.

One very dark night, a number of these savages, supported by quite a numerous band of warriors, crept, like wolves, into the grazing ground of the horses, and succeeded in seizing eighteen of them, with which they made off rapidly towards their own country.

The loss was not discovered until morning.