The prisoner had, in the meantime, been brought out, and was sitting under a tree a few yards from the council ground, surrounded by a crowd of squaws and children and guarded by two young braves, who had not yet taken a scalp in battle, and, therefore, were not allowed to have any voice or vote in deciding his fate.
He was unbound. His friends, except Buffalo Bill, were with him. As he knew of this last effort which was being made in his behalf, he was, of course, waiting for the verdict in great excitement.
Congo was the first to speak.
“Here comes Massa Cody! He’s a-shakin’ his head an’ lookin’ berry sober. I reckon it’s all ober wid you.”
So it was. The decision was against mercy by a majority of fifteen votes.
A shout from the prisoner and a beckoning of his hands toward his friends showed that he desired them to come to him. They at once followed the rabble of squaws and children who were moving, with the condemned man in their midst, toward the place where the gantlet was to be run.
The lines were already being formed, almost at the same spot where the mimic punishment had taken place half an hour before.
Poor Hare now seemed too much frightened to stand any chance of escape in the ordeal that was before him—that was now so close at hand.
He had already thrown off his hunting jacket, and was dressed only in his underclothing, shirt and trousers, with boots and a sombrero.
He was deathly pale about the forehead and temples, but there was a flush on his cheeks which went and came quickly. This, with his pallor, his wide-open nostrils, and his glaring eyes, proclaimed his excitement to be little less than that of a madman.
Perhaps it would have been well for him if he had been mad at this moment, for insanity might have nerved him to some deed of daring that would have saved his life.
His conductors stopped for his friends to come up when they saw that was his wish, and he handed to Buffalo Bill the letters which he had written to his wife and father. He had kept them by him until now, for the purpose of adding some pencil postscripts to them from time to time.
He had given his watch and pocketbook to Buffalo Bill secretly the evening before, being afraid that he might be plundered of them, though the border king had faith enough in the honor of the Sioux to believe that there was no danger of such a thing happening.
Two redskins caught hold of the prisoner’s arm and dragged him along, one of them saying impatiently, in English:
“Too much talk. No good!”
Hare looked back and exclaimed:
“Try—try, Cody, for mercy’s sake! Don’t give me up yet! Try something—try anything!”
“We would fight it out for you, Hare,” Cody replied—even at the risk of the Indians understanding. “But you know we must think of the women first. What would their fate be if we fell, as fall we almost certainly all would?”
Hare made some reply, but his custodians hurried him along and Cody could not hear it. The crowd which now enveloped the prisoner prevented the white men from getting near him.
Black Panther was hurrying to and fro like a field officer on parade day, except that he was on foot; and if he came near the white men he gave them no opportunity to address him, but plainly showed by his manner toward them that he considered their presence there an impertinence and an intrusion.
“He feels mighty big,” said Congo angrily. “I should just like to have him alone a little while out in a field dere, widout any weapons ’cept our fists. I’d give him such a drubbin’ dat he’d squeal like a dog cotched under a wagon wheel.”
“Come, Cody,” said the captain, who saw the painfully anxious look of the king of the scouts. “It is plain that nothing more can be done. We must think of the women before everything. It will never do to turn the vengeance of these savages against the whole lot of us.”
“Don’t let us stay and see the man butchered,” said another of the party.
“So say I,” agreed another. “We have stayed here too long for the safety of the women already.”
The other men concurred, except Buffalo Bill.
“Go, my friends, if you consider it your duty,” he said. “There are the boats—take them and go. I shall certainly stay. I promised this poor man to stay by him to the last, and I shall do it. We cannot tell what chance may turn up, even at this eleventh hour. I do not think he has many minutes of life left, but still there may be an opportunity of saving him.”
Captain Meinhold hesitated, but, as it now became evident that the lines were complete and the race about to begin, curiosity detained him. Indeed, that same feeling—morbid, though not unnatural—induced the whole party to press closer to the course to get a better view.
The crowd had broken away from the starting end of the line; some of the squaws and larger boys having taken their places in the ranks, clubs in hand, and others being scattered along the route, where they could better see its whole extent.
As the white spectators were scarcely more than fifty yards distant from the lists, they could now distinctly see everything that took place.
Hare, catching sight of them through the opening that had been made, beckoned to them eagerly to come nearer.
Buffalo Bill alone attempted to comply, but when he advanced about halfway he was stopped by loud cries and angry gestures from the Indians.
Thinking still of the women and the danger of provoking a conflict, he went no nearer.
The prisoner was stationed with his back against a tree, and the nearest of his watchful foes were about six feet from him, they being two lads of sixteen or seventeen years at the head of the line. They were evidently anxious to bring him down at the very outset of his course.
They did not look in any way wrathful, Buffalo Bill thought. They even exchanged nods and smiles now and then, while they waited for the “sport” to begin; but as the starting moment drew nearer there was an eager, intent look on their faces, like that of hunters when the deer is breaking cover.
Running Water was seated at the end of the ground at the lower end of the lists, where he could command a view of the race and see that no rule of the course was violated. By him, also, the signal for the start was to be given.
One who acted as a sort of marshal rode along the lines to see that every man was in his proper place.
Half a minute later the starting signal was given by the chief rising to his feet and clapping his hands loudly. Before he had struck them twice together the prisoner sprang forward with an unexpected velocity that carried him past the first half dozen of his enemies unharmed, while their swift blows fell upon the empty air.
Inspired by this success, the young man dashed onward, receiving some blows from the women and dodging others, and now and then stooping low and darting beneath the extended clubs of his assailants.
Some happy instinct, or some rapid mental action, appeared to govern his movements, for he seemed to see where his most formidable foes were stationed, and to avoid them by brushing close along the other line—too close for club blows and too swiftly for arrest or detention by the grapple of long arms, which, dropping their weapons, strove to clutch him as he passed.
Never, perhaps, had so singular a race been run; for although the desperate fugitive violated no rule of the lists, he made so many feints and dodges and sudden turns that he disappointed all calculations as to where he would be found at any given instant.
In fact, his unexpected pluck and activity surprised both friends and foes.
Buffalo Bill could not help sending forth a cheer of encouragement as the fugitive sped onward.
But the cheer was ill-timed and evoked a defiant response from the lower half of the line, where the best warriors were stationed.
As yet the panting man had encountered but few of the braves, though there were several sturdy young men and still active old ones among those whom he had baffled and passed by.
But even when he had entered upon the latter half of his race his good fortune seemed still to attend him. Although some sounding blows fell upon him and staggered him at times, he kept on, making a little progress, though doubling often and standing at bay occasionally for a few seconds to get breath for renewed exertions.
And now, to the astonishment of all, he had passed two-thirds of his foes and yet retained his feet, while a tumult of cries and shouts came up from those he had deluded, inciting the others to more vigilant and energetic action.
That he should have gone so far unharmed seemed little less than a miracle, but Buffalo Bill was nearly certain that some of the blows seemingly aimed at him with the greatest fury were mere feints, and were made by those warriors who had voted for his release in council, and were still willing to see him go free.
But this favoritism, alas! was not likely to save him.
Black Panther, perhaps, had anticipated it; for many of his partisans were stationed near him, and they formed a terrible phalanx which the prisoner had yet to pass before his safety could be attained.
Jaded, breathless, bruised, and weakened, what could he do?
There was no mercy in the fierce faces before him. The sacred teachings of forgiveness had not moved those fierce hearts.
The despised and trembling prisoner had grown almost into a hero in their estimation, whom it would be an honor to imitate and whose escape would be a lasting disgrace to their prowess.
The result was almost inevitable.
Poor Hare, after his really gallant effort to escape, fell under a heavy blow. He was not a dozen yards from the goal of safety, but he lay stunned and motionless on the ground. To all appearance he was quite dead.
His friends, indeed, hoped that such might be the case and that his sufferings were ended.
But in this they were disappointed, for when a few gourdfuls of water had been dashed over him by his exultant foes he revived and showed that he had yet enough of life in him to gratify their ferocity, which was only now fully awakened.
When some gathered around the fallen man, and jeered and taunted him with his defeat, others busied themselves in making preparations for their next scene in the tragic entertainment.
The pyre was soon in process of construction around the trunk of a tree, and as there were many willing hands to gather the dry fagots and green boughs of which it was composed, it did not take long to complete it.
Space was left between the fuel and the tree for the prisoner to stand, and there was also an opening through the pile wide enough to admit of his passage and to allow access to him for any preliminary torments.
Still, no haste was made in leading the condemned man to execution. The pleasure of anticipation was something, and, perhaps, it was deemed best not to have the popular show terminate too soon.
It was yet only about eight o’clock in the morning, and while some of the women and children surrounded the captive—who had again been bound—and amused themselves by inflicting small annoyances upon him, the warriors gathered in squads and entered into an animated discussion of the sport in which they had just been engaged.
Some justified their blunders; some extolled their skill, which had only been defeated by the most extraordinary ill luck; but all agreed in awarding the honors of the day to valiant Bulboo—whatever that might mean—whose club had brought the exhausted man down.
Now, as Bulboo was a half brother to Strong Arm, this result was generally satisfactory, and was probably considered a proof of approval of the ordeal on the part of those unseen powers which guide the destinies of men.
However this may have been, the victor had certainly gained caste and influence by his success, and the thought at once occurred to Buffalo Bill that if anything more could be attempted in behalf of the prisoner in the short time which remained for action, this was the most promising field for effort.
Running Water could do nothing, and the proud Black Panther could not even be approached directly by the white men, to whom he had evidently conceived a hatred; but Bulboo, satisfied with his exploits, might, perhaps, listen to the voice of mercy, for a “consideration,” and be made the medium of a new communication with, and further overtures to, the imperious Black Panther.
Buffalo Bill, in younger days, had been an amateur artist, and he was still a ready, if not very correct, draftsman with the pencil.
Seated under a tree, with his knee for an easel, he drew on the blank leaf of a letter a picture of a prancing horse saddled and bridled, with a tolerable likeness of Bulboo at his side, holding him by the reins.
Then he sketched two other horses, similarly caparisoned, eight or ten guns, two kegs, and made a rather bungling attempt to represent a box of clay pipes and a pile of blankets.
Having completed this picture writing, he watched his opportunity when Black Panther was at a distance, and then he dispatched Congo to ask the chief if he would come and see his white brother once more for a few minutes, and would bring the great warrior Bulboo with him.
Running Water was seated on the grass, smoking his reed pipe and watching the proceedings of those around him, and when he saw the negro approaching he motioned to him to go back, and pointed to the place where the boats were moored, as an intimation that the strangers ought now to depart.
But these inhospitable gestures were evidently made more in sorrow than in anger, and as Joe insisted on coming forward, and began to speak, the chief, by a quick motion of the hand, signified to him to sit down on the ground, with his back to the crowd, of whom but few, if any, were near enough to hear what might be said.
Congo obeyed, and then delivered his message as intelligibly as he could.
“My brother is not wise,” replied Running Water. “He is free now. By and by he may be tied to a tree.”
“Guess notty,” replied Congo. “Come—be goody, Mr. Running Water. You great chiefy.”
The Indian smiled, and replied with a brief eulogy upon his own greatness, of which Joe could understand but little except the drift, but he nodded gravely at the end of each sentence, and repeated:
“Great chiefy.”
But the potent leader did not deport himself like one at liberty to do all that he pleased.
He looked carefully on either side of him, and particularly in the direction in which Black Panther had vanished, and then informed Congo that he would meet his brother in one of the remote wigwams, which he pointed out to him.
“Him go; I come,” he said.
“An’ bring Cap’n Bully Boy?” asked the negro.
“Yes, me bring um.”
Joe returned with this message, being careful to keep his eye on the lodge which had been named as the rendezvous, and Buffalo Bill, with hopes slightly revived, was soon on his way thither, accompanied by the negro, and regardless of the renewed entreaties of Captain Meinhold to embark, and of the threats of some of the party that they would seize the boats and go without him.
He went saunteringly, so as not to attract attention, and when he was sure that he was unwatched, unless by Running Water, he entered the deserted cabin, and from its one open window looked anxiously forth for the approach of the two men to whom this his last appeal was to be made.
The fact that this was his last hope, and that if it failed his young friend and companion would in a few minutes be in the hands of his tormentors and executioners made him exceedingly nervous.
At one moment he thought that he was foolishly persistent and that, so far from there being any prospect of success, he was only risking his own life and that of his other comrades and the safety of the women by his importunities. But at the next there seemed a little ground for hope, and he could not bear to abandon it.
Running Water and Bulboo soon came, the latter evidently wondering and looking by no means mild and benignant. Yet if his war paint had been washed off, perhaps all his fierceness of expression would have gone with it.
He was a young man, scarcely past thirty years, tall and slim, and clad in a kirtle of deerskin, which extended to his knees, and which, with his leggings and moccasins, constituted his only apparel.
Two dried claws of the grizzly bear, fastened by a leathern string around his neck, rested like epaulets upon his shoulders, and were the badge of his rank as a brave, he having killed the monster whose trophies he thus wore.
Buffalo Bill opened the conference by frankly informing Running Water of his designs, and, by way of making his meaning clear, he exhibited the pictures he had drawn, which at once enlisted the curiosity and excited the admiration of the savages.
Bulboo at once recognized the portraits of himself, for the figure and dress were sufficient to individualize it, and he seemed much pleased with it as a work of art before he comprehended the object for which it had been drawn.
Buffalo Bill, before making any offer of presents which were so likely to delight a savage, reminded the chief that he did not propose to pay for the blood of Strong Arm; but if his people were inclined to be just and merciful he wished to show them what they would gain by it.
The prisoner, he said, was rich. He would give three horses, like those in the sketch, all saddled and bridled, to Running Water, Black Panther, and Bulboo, so that they might each ride to the chase or the battlefield as became their rank.
He would also give a dozen good rifles, a dozen broadcloth blankets, five kegs of fire water, five pounds of powder, two hundred pipes, a barrel of tobacco, a big box full of colored glass beads, and enough earrings and finger rings of the best brass to supply the whole tribe.
“An’ de rigimintals, Massa Cody,” said the watchful Congo, when the other had ended this enumeration of tempting gifts; “put in de rigimintals, for de Injuns t’ink an orful sight of dem.”
Yes, it was well thought of. Two military suits, with epaulets, were added to the list—these also being sketched by Buffalo Bill’s facile pencil—one of them being for the great chief and the other for the great brave, Black Panther.
“An’ one for Bully Boy,” whispered Congo.
No. Buffalo Bill did not wish to make these coveted articles too common, and, but for the fear of offending the chief, he would have offered only one, making it a special prize for Black Panther, whose extensive influence he was especially anxious to secure.
The savages listened with an amazed and puzzled look to this catalogue of treasures, but, much to the disappointment of Buffalo Bill, who watched their countenance closely, they showed no sign of being particularly pleased.
After conversing gruffly, and with seeming anger, in their own language, the chief took up the pictured paper, and said:
“My brother is not wise. These things are not for men—they are for children.”
“No good! No shoot!” added Bulboo.
“Why, Massa Cody,” added Joe, “I’m blamed if dey don’t t’ink it’s de paper horses an’ guns you’se offerin’ dem. Ha! ha! What a pair of ninnyhammers!”
“Keep still, Joe,” replied the other, smiling, and then proceeding to correct the mistake by assuring the red men, in the best mixed English and Indian that he could command, that he offered them real, living horses, of any color that they chose, and real rifles and blankets, and everything else which he had enumerated, real and substantial, and of the best kind.
“Me no see um,” replied the chief, affecting to look around through the door and window. “Does my brother keep his horses in the clouds or under the great lake?”
That both the Indians were altogether incredulous, and were now inclined to depart in disgust, was quite apparent, and it was with no little difficulty that Buffalo Bill succeeded in making them understand the remaining part of his proposition.
They should retain their prisoner, he said, until the time came, which should be at the farthest by the next new moon—about twenty days ahead—and if they failed to receive all that had been promised they might then carry out their sentence against him.
As a pledge of his sincerity and of his expectations to redeem his promises, he offered the chief his watch to keep until he came back, bringing all the gifts; and Joe added to this offer that of his magic corkscrew, on the special condition that it should be kept safe and should be returned to him “w’en de hosses and guns come.”
The Indians, though still looking amazed, now seemed much pleased, and said they would both talk to Black Panther and to their people, and try to turn their hearts if it was not too late; but that the prisoner was already being led to the tree, as his friends could see, and that his tortures had probably begun.
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, make haste!” exclaimed Cody, who remembered the pistol in Hare’s possession; “and you, Congo, run! run! Get as near to him as you can, and tell him what we are doing.”
“Yes, sah; I’ll try,” said Joe. “But Black Panther, he’ll drive me off, I know, and I ’fraid he tommyhawk me.
“Run! run! I’ll follow as fast as I can. If you can’t get near enough to speak to him, make signs that we are coming.”
The four men all started for the scene of torture, but at very different rates of speed, for the two Indians walked with stately gravity, conversing as they went.
Buffalo Bill and Congo ran as fast as they could.
The negro, being the swifter of the two, was soon hovering on the outskirts of the crowd of men, women, and children who were gathered around the execution tree.
Finding it impossible to get through the throng, he imitated the example of many of the Indian boys and girls, and climbed a tree, from the lowest branches of which he could overlook the crowd and get a view of all that was going on.
The condemned man was bound to a small maple by a rope of bark, which was passed several times around his waist, but his limbs and head were left free, probably for the additional amusement to be derived from seeing him attempt to dodge or ward off the various missiles aimed at him by his persecutors.
This sport had already begun, as was apparent from some arrows and knives sticking in the tree near his head, and a shout of laughter which rang through the crowd just as Congo attained his elevated seat applauded the successful feat of pinning one ear of the captive to the tree by a shaft from a bow.
Pale as a ghost and frantic with terror, poor Hare now put up his hands to ward off the flying weapons, and now tried to extricate the arrow from his ear, groaning meanwhile and begging for mercy in language, of course, which would have been unintelligible to most of his tormentors if heard, but which was drowned by their own shouts and cries.
He had been left clad in the garments in which he had run his race, with the exception of his hat, which was off, and Congo could plainly see the stock of his pistol slightly protruding from his pocket, as if he had partly drawn it out, but feared to use it.
His hand wandered irresolutely toward it now and then, and as it seemed that his sufferings and dread must nerve him to a speedy use of this effectual means of escaping the malice of his enemies, Joe hastily tried to attract his attention without drawing upon himself the observation of the savage crowd.
He drew from his pocket a yellow cotton kerchief, and waved it toward him; but, failing to accomplish his object in this way, and seeing that his hand again sought his pistol and rested with firm grasp upon the protruding stock, he shouted desperately to him, heedless of the danger which he was drawing upon himself.
“Massa Hare, Massa Hare!” he cried. “Hold on, dar! Don’t shoot yourself! Dey’se comin’ to save you yit!”
Probably little or nothing of this was understood by the prisoner, but he heard the negro’s voice, and, following the eyes of the crowd who turned like one man to look at the intruder, saw him still waving his yellow flag.
Great confusion ensued, many of the savages believing that the black “medicine man” was performing some incantation to save the life of his friend, and others, less superstitious, aiming guns and arrows at him, seemingly by direction of the irate Black Panther, whose shouted orders sounded over the field.
The vigilant Joe, seeing his danger, leaped to the ground and ran to meet Buffalo Bill, who was now close at hand, followed at a little distance by the chief and Bulboo, who had also quickened their speed and were fast coming up.
“Stop, Massa Cody! Stop! An’ let’s git behind de chief an’ Cap’n Bully Boy!” exclaimed the frightened Joe. “Or dey’ll shoot us bofe, just as sure as a gun.”
Cody complied with this prudent request, for many of the Indians were rushing toward them.
Running Water waved them back with an authoritative gesture of his hand, and, placing himself in front of the imperiled men, bade them sit down on the grass and keep quite still.
“Is he alive?” asked Cody, in a whisper, as he complied with this order, for his solicitude for Hare still outweighed his sense of personal danger.
“Yes, massa, but he got de pistol in his hand, and I expect to hear it go off every minute.”
“No—you’ve effected a diversion, for the present, I guess.”
“I don’t t’ink it’s very diverting, massa,” replied the trembling negro. “See how mad dey is.”
“They won’t come any nearer. See, the chief is speaking to them, and Bulboo stands close at his side to show that he agrees with him.”
“What does he say?”
“He is only telling them to be quiet, I believe, and to send Black Panther to him. At least, I judge so by his gestures, and his frequent mention of the orator’s name.”
“Yes—yes—dare comes Black Panther lookin’ as fierce as a turkey gobbler; and a lot of others jest like him. It’s all up with us now, Massa Cody. I never was so scairt before. I tell you dey’ll burn us all.”
“Well, well, keep still. There’s nothing else that we can do now; for to speak would incense them still further, and to run would probably be fatal.”
But little of the dialogue which now ensued between the chief and his warriors was understood by Cody, but, judging from its tones, it was not over-courteous on either side.
If it was not an angry altercation, it was something very near it, and if Running Water had not been supported by Bulboo—the victor in the lists, and a near relative of Strong Arm—he would scarcely have gained a hearing in asking, as he now did, for an hour’s suspension of the proceedings against the prisoner until a new talk could be had and a new proposition considered.
Shouts of indignant refusal met this request at first, but when Bulboo had gone over to Black Panther and whispered a few words to him, doubtless about the presents, that dignitary consented to a respite and a new council, but scouted the idea of its terminating differently from the preceding ones.
That no time might be lost, the braves were at once separated from the crowd and were seated upon the ground under the shade of a large tree, while the prisoner, still bound, was left exposed to such annoyances as the squaws and small children saw fit to inflict. But they did not use any weapons upon him, for they had received orders not to do so.
They pulled his hair, they pinched his flesh, they made mocking faces at him, they pelted him with tufts of sod and dirt, and loaded him with opprobrious epithets. These last, however, were lost upon him, as he did not understand them.
But his friends, Cody and Congo, although not allowed to approach him, were now within his view, and as long as he was not abandoned he would not quite despair, nor resort to suicide, as he had been momentarily tempted to do in order to escape the indignities and tortures which were being heaped upon him.
As to hope of escape or release, he could scarcely be said to indulge it, for he knew nothing of the reason why his severer tortures were suspended, and he supposed it was only for the purpose of giving the women and children their share of the sport.
Buffalo Bill and his sable friend did not know whether they were in custody or not. Several armed savages remained near them, and Joe, who had evidently given serious offense, was disposed to take a somber view of affairs.
“If Black Panther has his way, it’s all up with us, sah,” he said. “He won’t believe in all these promises. ’Cause why? You’ve offered dem too much, sah. He’ll say you’se only goin’ hum after soldiers to rescue Massa Hare. You’ll see. Why for they no send for you to de council if dey friendly?”
Sure enough, Cody was far from easy in his mind; and almost at this moment a new cause for alarm was discovered, and was announced to them by one of the red men. He came near, and then, with some unintelligible ejaculation, pointed to the lake, where Captain Meinhold’s boat was seen rapidly departing, and already many rods from the shore.
The chase after Congo had added the climax to the fears of the officer and his companions. They were alarmed for the safety of the women.
Meinhold was as brave as a lion personally, and he would have stayed behind with Cody gladly; but he and the rest had felt that they dared not risk the lives or safety of the helpless women in their care.
The deserted men made no efforts to win back their comrades, for Buffalo Bill not only believed that such an effort would be useless now, but he felt that he had not the right to ask them further to imperil their safety and that of the women against their own convictions of duty.
He had no hard feelings against Captain Meinhold, for he perfectly understood the reason that had led him to take such a course. He knew the gallant officer too well to suppose that it had been a cowardly anxiety on his own account.
He was not long left unrewarded for this self-abnegation, however; for a messenger from the council soon summoned both himself and Congo to attend the deliberations of that body.
The border king found that the braves were much excited over the new proposition that had been made to them, and were quite disposed to be good-natured.
Black Panther himself, in spite of the high-sounding speech he had made scorning the silver of the palefaces, was really of a selfish and covetous nature. He now found a good pretext for abandoning his lofty, patriotic stand in the fact that a near relative of the slain man had set him the example.
The orator was examining the pictured prizes with much interest. With his eyes fixed solely on the horse and regimentals promised to himself, he was descanting loudly on the benefits that would accrue to others from the proposed arrangement.
The rifles were very much needed, he said, as nearly half of the braves were without guns, and the blankets would be of much service; while the whisky and tobacco and pipes and trinkets would make the hearts of all the people glad.
He professed, indeed, not to believe in the ability of Buffalo Bill to make all these gorgeous promises good. He must be a very great man if he could do so; but personally he, Black Panther, was willing to give him a trial.
They would risk little in doing this. The prisoner would remain in their hands, and could as well be put to death a few weeks hence as now.
In short, Black Panther said—quite mildly now—that he agreed with Bulboo and with his cousin, the good chief, and would give his voice for postponing the execution, and for finally releasing the prisoner if all the presents came.
There was no difficulty about this, especially as so many of the warriors had originally been in favor of mercy, and had been overruled in the vote taken on the subject.
In a few minutes another vote was taken, and a favorable decision was announced.
Buffalo Bill, delighted beyond all expression, hastened to ask permission to inform the prisoner of his respite. This was granted by the council.
The chief and others followed to see the man released from his bonds.
No words could describe the ecstasy of joy with which the good news was received by poor Hare, who swooned in his first excitement. For a minute or two he lay on the ground, unconscious of the good fortune that had come to him.
When he revived he found himself on the grass, resting in the arms of his two friends.
After restoring him fully by dashing cold water in his face, and dressing his wounds, they told him the particulars of what had taken place and what they had promised in his behalf.
“It will probably take pretty nearly all you have in the world to pay your ransom,” said Buffalo Bill.
“Oh, that’s of no consequence! What of that?” exclaimed the happy man. “If you had been where I was just now, you would have thought millions of dollars a cheap price to pay to get loose.”
“Of course,” said Buffalo Bill. “And you are to stay here quietly until the presents come. Running Water says you will not be bound, but you will be watched. If you try to escape, you will be killed. It would be foolish for you to try to get away, for even if you did they would follow you and track you down.”
“That’s all right. I’ll consent to that willingly enough. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t fail to get the things here on time. Do you think you can do it? How can I ever thank you for all you have done for me, Cody? I owe my life to you.”
“I have only done what I would have wished any other man to do for me,” the king of the scouts replied.
“May Heaven help you in the same way when you are in your utmost need!” continued the grateful man. “And Congo, too—for he has done what he could. He has, at least, stayed near me and encouraged me.”
“He has done a great deal more than that,” replied Cody, “as you will find out presently. But our other friends are gone, Hare.”
“Gone? I thought they were back in the woods waiting for you.”
“No; they took the boats and went, as they had a right to do. They got alarmed for the safety of the women, and Captain Meinhold, I suppose, thought it was best to go. I do not blame them. They thought there was no hope for you, and they were all in great danger. They gave me fair warning repeatedly, but I——”
“Massa Cody wouldn’t go an’ leave you, sah, till de last was ober, let come what would. Dat’s it, sah.”
“I see—I see. I am even more indebted to him than I supposed. Cody, you have risked life and everything for me—for me, a traitor!”
“I have only done my duty,” replied the border king simply. “Say no more of it.”
But Hare, who, if he could not always be courageous, was at least grateful, would not be repressed on this point, and he continued to manifest his gratitude to his deliverer with childlike earnestness and simplicity.
“But how are you to get off, and when?” he asked.
“I do not know. Probably our red friends will help to put us in the way of getting to the nearest white settlement or to Fort McPherson.”
“Ah, I hope you get through safely, both for your sake and for mine. If you are lost, I shall be lost also. Yes; even if anything happens to delay you beyond the three weeks stipulated, my fate will be sealed.”
“Never fear. We shall doubtless get through without trouble, or one of us, at least; and even Congo could attend to your business. He could get assistance, you know.”
“Is there money enough at my command, I wonder?”
“How much can you raise?”
“About a thousand dollars. I will give you a letter which will enable you to get the money.”
“It ought to be enough. If it is not, I will make up the deficiency.”
“Yes, yes; and I will repay you the last cent, if I have to live on bread and water to do it. But you may have time to communicate with my father, and he will supply all you need. How will you get the things here?”
“The best way will be to charter a small sloop and sail across the lake, I suppose,” replied Buffalo Bill. “It will be quicker and less perilous than traveling by land through a country so infested by Indians, who, if they are not actually hostile, are yet not by any means to be trusted—especially if they saw articles so much coveted by them as those which we shall bring.”
“Massa Cody, dere’s Cap’n Running Water an’ Bully Boy, looking as if dey was waitin’ to spoke to you,” said Joe.
“So they are. They are too polite to interrupt our talk. You find more courtesy among Indians than you do among most white men. I will go to them.”
He went, and the chief, advancing to meet him, pointed to the lake and asked if he and Congo would like to be sent in a canoe to rejoin their friends, who had not been gone more than an hour and could be easily overtaken.
Of course, the border king replied in the affirmative, and instant preparations were made for departure, Cody hurrying back to bid Hare good-by and give him a last word of advice.
Hare promised compliance with his admonitions, and his friends, after a more formal farewell with the chief and principal braves, proceeded to the beach and embarked in a canoe which was awaiting them, manned by two young Indians who had been instructed by Running Water to go “much quick.”
Certainly the red paddlers propelled their little bark with great rapidity, and within an hour, on doubling a little promontory, they came in sight of Captain Meinhold’s boat, apparently about three miles ahead.
But here a new difficulty occurred, for the men in the forward boat, having discovered the pursuing canoe, believed themselves to be chased with hostile intent, and they quickened their speed to escape.
They could not distinguish white men from red at that distance. They could only see that there were four people in the craft behind them, and as it was impossible for them to conjecture the true state of things, it was most natural to suppose that those four men were foes.
The outbreak of which they had witnessed the beginning, and from which they had fled, had ended, they did not doubt, in the arrest of Buffalo Bill and Congo and the sending of the canoe after themselves.
So they fled, and as they put all their strength to their oars, the chase was a long one.
“It’s just as I expected,” said a man named Hutton, who was not by any means a courageous fellow, and had been one of the foremost in counseling Captain Meinhold to leave. “That obstinate fellow Cody has brought ruin upon us all. Here we are now with four or five Indians after us, and probably more behind, and nothing but a pistol or two to defend ourselves with. In a little while they will be within rifle shot, and then they will begin to fire upon us.”
So they made for the shore with a view of scattering and hiding in the wood until night. But they were a long way from the land, having kept far out for safety.
In spite of the most exhausting labor at the oars, the Indians gained on them. The canoe, increasing its speed and taking a diagonal course, was soon within bullet range.
While, however, the wearied fugitives were expecting a shot and were watching for the leveling of the guns, so that they might throw themselves down in the bottom of the boat, they saw a more welcome sight.
Two hats were waved in the air, and, as the Indians did not wear hats, the conclusion was inevitable that they were followed by friends instead of foes.
A closer inspection, which but for their alarm they might sooner have made, justified this hope, and they turned joyfully to meet their pursuers.
The tidings which Buffalo Bill brought were most astonishing and gratifying to Captain Meinhold, who complimented the scout highly on his success, and took shame to himself for having deserted him, even for the sake of the women.
But the border king was not disposed to blame any one, and, so far from reproaching the captain, he awarded him a large share of credit for the happy result.
“If you had said no when we talked of going back with Hare,” he said, “his fate would have been sealed. The rest of the men would have sided with you, and I should have been obliged to submit.”
“Tell you wot, gemmen, afore you leave these red boys you better borry or buy one of dere guns, or we shall starve ag’in,” said Joe. “We ain’t got a mouthful o’ nuffin’.”
This was considered a good idea, and the attempt was made to purchase a gun and some ammunition, the men offering all the silver they had, and the women some jewelry. But the Indians refused to sell, saying that the guns did not belong to them, but to two other braves, and had only been lent to them for self-protection on this trip.
“Let’s take them by force,” said Hutton. “Our lives may depend on it.”
This proposition was indignantly rejected by the others, and the Indians, who fortunately did not understand it, offered instead a fishing line which lay in the bottom of the canoe.
They would take nothing for it, but after it had been delivered and thankfully accepted they suddenly turned their canoe around and started homeward, waving a parting salutation.
The voyagers, after an hour of brisk rowing along the coast, all felt the pressing demand of hunger, and went ashore, where some searched for edible roots and fruits and others for bait for fishing.
Congo soon had a pocketful of worms, and, while others roamed on land for food or rested beneath the trees, he rowed out about twenty rods from shore and tried his luck.
Perhaps the finny inhabitants of this part of the lake had never before seen a baited hook, and had no tradition of their ancestors having been caught by one. Perhaps there was a political or educational convention of fishes assembled at this particular time and place; but, whatever the cause, Joe’s success was immediate and extraordinary.
Perch and bass and catfish contended for the honor of being caught. No sooner did the impaled worm drop in the water than it was seized by one of the voracious throng and darted at by others, who followed the envied captive almost to the surface of the lake, little dreaming that his upward flight was other than voluntary.
“Bress my soul!” exclaimed Congo, as he soon found himself the center of a circle of flopping life which grew momentarily larger and more demonstrative. “I neber seed nuffin’ like dis afore. Dis ’ere must be an enchanted line! Whoop! Here comes anudder! A whopper, too! A three-pound bass, dat ar is! Dere you go, dancing wid de rest, w’ile I cotch your brudder an’ de rest ob your relations.”
Thus Joe fished and chattered, nor did the sport cease until the last of his bait had gone, by which time he had upward of sixty fish, averaging over a pound in weight, and all caught in a little over an hour.
Great was the amazement and delight of the party when they heard of Joe’s success. After a hearty repast, during which everybody grew jollier than they had been for a long time past, the voyagers resumed their journey, taking with them the remainder of their provisions, but feeling reluctant to leave so wonderful a fishing ground without further sport.
After three days of easy journeying, the party reached a white settlement on the shores of the lake, and there Buffalo Bill, Congo, and Captain Meinhold secured horses on which they could journey to Fort McPherson quickly.
The rest of the party would follow at their leisure, but it was imperative for Buffalo Bill to reach the fort, as from that place he would be able to speedily make the necessary arrangements for Hare’s ransom.
He well knew the danger of delay in this matter. If the presents did not arrive within the stipulated time, it was likely enough that the Indians, always more or less suspicious in their nature, would decline to wait any longer, but would at once proceed to torture the unfortunate captive to death.
No doubt Running Water would do his best to prevent this, but his influence with the tribe over which he was chief seemed to be less than that of Black Panther—at all events, in this matter.
Fort McPherson was safely reached without any incidents worthy of record happening on the way.
The commandant already knew of the loss of the schooner; for the men who had escaped in the other boat, from which the Buffalo Bill party had been separated in the storm, had made their way to the fort just before, reporting that they were the sole survivors.
There was naturally much rejoicing among the officers and soldiers when they found that so many others of their comrades had also managed to save their lives, and especially at the fact that the women were safe.
The commandant listened with deep interest to the story of their adventures in Running Water’s village, as told to him by Buffalo Bill and Captain Meinhold.
He was at first inclined to send a force of soldiers back with Buffalo Bill to punish the Indians for daring to capture a white man, hold him captive, and threaten to put him to death by torture.
Buffalo Bill, however, managed to persuade him that this would be neither fair nor wise.
He pointed out that the Indians had been kind and hospitable toward the shipwrecked party until Hare shot one of their number, that then they had only thought to carry out their idea of strict justice, and that in the end they had been willing to temper even that with mercy.
If soldiers were sent after them under such conditions, the faith of the redskins in the fair dealing of the whites would be shattered all through the country.
The commandant recognized the force of these arguments, and satisfied himself with helping the king of the scouts to get together the promised presents for the red men.
There was little difficulty in arranging this, and two days after his arrival at the fort Buffalo Bill set out on his way back to Running Water’s village, accompanied by Joe Congo, Wild Bill, and Captain Meinhold, the latter obtaining a short leave of absence for the purpose.
“After deserting you and Hare in the way I did,” the officer said to the border king, “I could never feel easy in my mind unless I saw the end of this business.”
“It was not desertion at all,” replied Cody. “You only did what you thought was your duty to the women. But I shall be very glad of your company on the trip, all the same.”
The Indian village was reached three days before the end of the period of reprieve which had been granted by the council to the captive.
“I was beginning to grow nervous,” Hare confessed, as he shook hands warmly with Buffalo Bill. “I knew you would not desert me, but as the time drew toward an end I feared that you might have met with some accident that would delay you, or even prevent you from coming at all.”
The man had been well treated by the Indians during his period of captivity, but he had been closely watched night and day. Even had he been disposed to disregard Cody’s advice against attempting to escape, he would have found no chance to do so.
All of the Indians, from Running Water himself down to the youngest brave, were delighted with the presents. They fell short in no particular of the border king’s pictured descriptions. On the contrary, they exceeded the wildest anticipations of the red men.
The horses and the rifles were particularly admired, for they were far better than any the tribe could get. But unfortunately there was one item of the ransom which led to trouble; it was the whisky.
Buffalo Bill had hesitated whether he should bring it with him. He was much opposed to the selling or giving of fire water to the redskins, and had always fought bitterly against it.
Sure enough, that night the whisky caused trouble, as it always does among palefaces as well as redskins.
Buffalo Bill and his friend had arrived at the village in the middle of the afternoon, and by the time the Indians had finished inspecting the presents and talking with the whites it needed only about two hours to sunset.
Buffalo Bill proposed to start on his journey back at once, taking Hare with him. He feared that the Indians would indulge in a drunken orgy that night, and it might not be safe for the white men to remain in the village. At all events, there would be a risk of trouble, for the worst passions of the braves would almost certainly be aroused by the whisky.
But Running Water would by no means hear of their going. Hospitable as ever, he begged Buffalo Bill and his friends to stay and take part in the great feast which would be held that night to celebrate the wealth that had come to his band.
Buffalo Bill tried hard to get out of the invitation, but the chief and his braves were so insistent that in the end he was obliged to give way, very much against his will.
The feast started early, and enormous quantities of meat were consumed by the gluttonous braves.
Unfortunately enormous quantities of whisky were drunk also.
It was not long before the ugly traits in the Indian character began to come to the front.
Several of the braves, reeling to their feet, yelled and shouted defiantly at one another, declaring, as most men are apt to do when they are drunk, that they could “lick the earth.”
Old enemies and feuds were recalled under the influence of the liquor, and there would have been more than one deadly fight had it not been for the restraining influence of Running Water, aided by Buffalo Bill and the other whites, who had become very popular with most of the warriors on account of the rich presents they had brought.
The old chief was a pretty clever diplomatist, and he succeeded in calming down the angry braves until the more drunken and quarrelsome of them, taking more of the whisky, sank into a stupor.
Black Panther was one of those who had indulged heavily, but the liquor did not seem to take quite the same effect on him as it did on the others.
He seemed to retain his senses perfectly, but, as he took drink after drink, his fierce black eyes became fixed upon the white men with an even deadlier glance of hatred.
He did not think of any quarrels that he might have with his own tribesmen. One of the great passions of his life was hatred of the whites, and it came uppermost now.
This hatred was particularly concentrated upon Buffalo Bill, whom he knew to be the leader of the little party.
The memory of the presents he had received that afternoon did not soothe him, by any means. Indeed, he had clean forgotten them under the influence of the whisky. He thought of only one thing—that he hated all white men, and particularly Buffalo Bill.
Running Water had not touched a drop of the liquor. When Buffalo Bill had asked him why, early in the evening, he had replied:
“Fire water bad for de man. Make him fool. Make him act like crazy man. Running Water must watch his braves. Running Water cannot drink.”
But of all the braves whom the chief watched, there was none he kept his eye on more intently than Black Panther.
That warrior said no word, but he looked steadily at Buffalo Bill with a baleful glare that would have done credit to the ferocious animal after which he was named.
“Black Panther bad to-night,” said the chief, in a whisper to Buffalo Bill. “He hate all white men—he hate you most. Be ready. He want to fight, but I try to stop him.”
“All right, chief,” replied the border king. “I’m sure I don’t want to fight him, if I can help it. You have treated us well, and we don’t want to have any trouble. We’d like to remain friends with all your band.”
The words were hardly spoken, when Black Panther rose suddenly to his feet and commenced to declaim a loud, passionate speech which even awakened some of the drunken sleepers.
Buffalo Bill could not understand many of the words. Although he was familiar with some dialects of the Sioux tongue, he did not know the particular one spoken by this band.
But the purport of his speech was plain enough from Black Panther’s impassioned gestures and the look of hatred which he concentrated on the king of the scouts.
Even Captain Meinhold and Hare, although less versed than the two scouts in the ways of the Indians, could not help seeing that what Black Panther wanted to do was to provoke a fight with Buffalo Bill.
In the middle of the harangue, Running Water rose to his feet and motioned to the brave to seat himself on the ground again; but Black Panther remained defiantly standing.
“What does he say?” the border king asked the chief.
“Him say he fight you with tomahawk—with knife—with revolver—with anything you like. But we not let him. You our friend. If a brave fight you here when you eat our meat, the face of my band is blackened.”
Running Water replied in this same strain to Black Panther, but he might as well have spoken to the wind.
Several of the braves—the more sober of them—supported their chief; but others wanted to see a fight, and they clamored to let Black Panther have his way. If the white man did not fight, they said, he was a coward.
Buffalo Bill caught this, for the word used was the same as in another dialect of the Sioux, which he knew.
He rose at once, repressing his anger with difficulty, and suggested to Running Water that he should wrestle with Black Panther. They need not fight a deadly duel, he urged, but they could at least see who was the better man.
The chief grasped eagerly at this proposal, for things were beginning to look serious, and bloodshed seemed imminent.
He translated Buffalo Bill’s challenge to Black Panther, and the latter fiercely accepted the suggestion.
He knew that he was far and away the best wrestler in the whole of the Sioux nation—the admitted champion of all the bands—and he had no doubt that he could vanquish his white opponent easily.
But he reckoned without his host, for he little knew that the king of the scouts had muscles as strong as steel, and had been trained in the art of wrestling from his youth up. So proficient, indeed, had he become in it that he had never yet met the redskin who could beat him—or the white man, either.
Black Panther stood up, naked to the waist, for the bout. He did not seem to be much affected by the quantity of whisky he had taken. His eye was clear, his attitude agile, and his movements as rapid as those of the animal from whom he had taken his name.
With a loud yell, he darted straight at Buffalo Bill, and in a second the two men were locked in a close embrace.
It was soon over. Buffalo Bill, with a mighty heave, flung the redskin clean over his shoulder.
For a few moments Black Panther lay upon the ground stunned. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet and glared at Buffalo Bill like a tiger.
The king of the scouts held himself ready for another wrestle, if his opponent chose to take it—but Black Panther had another idea in his mind.
He whipped a knife out of his belt, and would have rushed at Buffalo Bill and stabbed him to the heart, but Running Water and several of the other braves, fearing just this thing, had watched him closely.
In a trice they seized and disarmed him. He struggled furiously, but in the hands of half a dozen strong braves he was as helpless as a baby.
There was no one to say a word in his defense. Even the most drunken of the braves condemned his action, for hospitality is a sacred obligation to the red man. And Black Panther had actually tried to murder a guest!
By command of Running Water he was taken to a lodge and closely guarded until the white men left the village on the following morning.
Three braves, the most sober whom Running Water could select, watched him all night, tomahawk in hand.
They had orders to slay him on the spot if he made any attempt to break out of the lodge.
Black Panther knew this, and he was wise enough to keep still. But the flame of hatred in his heart burned more and more fiercely as the hours went by, and he vowed to himself that he would never rest until he had vengeance on his white opponent.
No man knew this better than Buffalo Bill, who was as familiar with the nature of the redskins as any white man can be.
Before he left the village with his friends, Running Water apologized profusely for the behavior of Black Panther, who, he said, had brought disgrace on all the band.
“He shall not remain with us,” the chief added. “He left us before. He shall go back to the band he joined. He shall not remain another day in the village.”
“Don’t drive him out on my account, chief,” said Buffalo Bill. “I bear him no ill will. It was the whisky that did it.”
“But he feel ill will to you,” replied Running Water gravely. “He kill you when he meet you, unless you kill him first.”
Buffalo Bill laughed.
“Well, I’ll do my best to look out for myself if I ever do meet him again,” he said.
“You better shoot quick,” was the parting warning of the chief to the border king, as he and his friends bade farewell and mounted their horses for the return journey.
“I reckon Running Water is about right,” said Buffalo Bill to Wild Bill, as they rode onward.
“How was he on the wrestle?” asked Wild Bill curiously.
“A mighty good man. If it hadn’t been for all that drink that was in him, he’d have been the toughest proposition to handle that I ever ran up against. As it was, he was not particularly difficult to throw.”
The fort was reached safely, and soon afterward Hare, the rescued captive, returned to his relatives, quite cured of any desire for further experiences of Western life.
Buffalo Bill had not seen the last of Black Panther.
Two months after the encounter in Running Water’s village the commandant of Fort McPherson ordered him to go, with a small band of his scouts, to the village of the Bear band of the Sioux nation.
They were threatening to cause trouble, the officer said, and they must be looked after, warned, and over-awed by a show of force. The famous Company B of the Third Cavalry, under command of Captain Meinhold, would go along with the scouts.
The village, when it was at last reached after a toilsome journey, was found to be deserted, except by a few women and children and old men, who, having had experience of the white soldiers before, knew that they had nothing to fear from them.
One of the old men, when closely questioned by Buffalo Bill, admitted that all the braves had gone away on the previous day on the war trail. They had had information from one of their hunters of the approach of the white force, and had concluded that it was too strong for them to meet.
The old man would not say in what direction they had gone, or what point they were aiming for; but it was easy enough for Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, who was with him, to hit the trail of such a large party and follow it.
Before he left the village the king of the scouts made inquiries as to whether Black Panther was with the war party.
He was told that his enemy was not only with it, but was its leader.
“But I thought that Wolf Claw was the chief of the Bear clan,” said the border king to the squaw who told him this.
“He was,” the woman replied. “But Wolf Claw is dead. He was killed by a grizzly bear while out hunting two moons ago, and the braves chose Black Panther to succeed him. He is a great warrior.”
The squaw did not know what valuable information she had given to the enemy of her people.
Buffalo Bill rode on with the knowledge that the conflict with the Sioux, when he came up with them, would be a more than ordinarily perilous one for him. Either Black Panther or himself would have to “go under.”
He was under no illusions as to the inveterate character of the hatred which the Sioux bore him. He knew that Black Panther would, if necessary, be ready to give his own life in order to take that of the man who had beaten him in wrestling and been the unwitting cause of his disgrace before Running Water’s band.
Who should know better than William F. Cody that an Indian is not wont either to forget or forgive?
After the trail of the Sioux had been followed for a few miles, Buffalo Bill found that the horses of the soldiers in Captain Meinhold’s troop could not keep up with those of the scouts under his own immediate command. The men were not such good riders and the animals were not so good.
He, therefore, suggested that he and his men should ride on ahead and the troopers should follow as quickly as they could.
Meinhold saw the wisdom of this arrangement, for it was imperative that the Indians should be caught up with as speedily as was possible. It was impossible to tell what scheme they had in mind. They might intend to raid one of the settlements within easy reach of such hard riders as they were.
All that day the trail was followed over the prairie, and the scouts kept on far into the night, for it was bright moonlight, and the broad track left by the horses of the Sioux could be followed without difficulty by such experts in the business of Indian fighting as they were.
A few hours’ rest—more for the sake of the horses than of the tough frontiersmen—was at last ordered by Buffalo Bill, and soon after dawn the chase was resumed.
The redskins outnumbered them by more than three to one, as the trail plainly showed; but neither Buffalo Bill nor any of his men cared anything for that. They were used to taking such odds—and far worse ones, too.
Toward the close of the afternoon they sighted the Sioux, who had offsaddled for a rest.
The vedettes of the Indians saw them at the same moment, and hastened in to carry the news to Black Panther.
The chief had no thought of flight. He knew that his braves largely outnumbered the white men, and he was only too glad to accept the gage of battle.
He had heard, too, from his scouts who had reported to him the approach of the white force before he left the village, that the famous “Long Hair” was in command of the white scouts. That alone would have been sufficient inducement to him to fight if there had been no other.
The conflict opened at long range, and the two parties fired at one another for two or three hours, taking such cover as they could behind their horses in the long grass, or behind small hummocks in the otherwise flat expanse of the prairie.
But the Indians found that this way of skirmishing did not pay them. The scouts were far better shots than they were, and possessed better rifles. So at last Black Panther gave the word to force the fighting to close quarters.
Buffalo Bill, like the good general that he was, tried to avoid this; but he could not do so. The horses of his men were jaded, while those of the Indians were fresh from their long rest.
Soon the two contending forces had closed, and the fighting was furious and animated beyond all description.
Buffalo Bill and Black Panther sought one another out in the middle of the scrimmage, and fought desperately hand to hand.
Then Buffalo Bill found out what a terrible enemy the Sioux chief was. The king of the scouts was wont to say in after years that he was the worst foe he had ever encountered.
Black Panther fired at him and missed. Then, angrily flinging down his gun, he drew his tomahawk and struck at him.
The king of the scouts had fired the last shot in the magazine of his repeater. He raised the weapon, and the blade of Black Panther’s hatchet fell on the stock, shearing the tough wood clean through—so terrible was the force of the blow.
But that blow was broken by the guard, and the tomahawk fell almost harmlessly on Buffalo Bill’s shoulder, merely inflicting a slight flesh wound.
Next moment the heavy breech of the border king’s rifle fell with fearful force on Black Panther’s head, dashing out his brains.
The fall of the chief marked the close of the fight.
The Indians had lost heavily, and when they saw the death of Black Panther the heart was taken out of the remnant of them.
Those who were not lying dead or wounded on the prairie turned to flee; and, as they did so, the sound of a bugle proclaimed the arrival on the scene of Captain Meinhold and his men—too late to take part in the fight, but just in time to assist in the pursuit, at the end of which few indeed of the Sioux were left alive.
Little more of the story remains to be told.
The defeat and almost total annihilation of the Bear clan kept the rest of the Sioux nation quiet for some time to come, and the peaceful and generous-minded Chief Running Water assisted in that task, ruling over his tribe in prosperity and honor for many years, and maintaining a close friendship with Buffalo Bill, who visited his village on many occasions—but was careful never to take any more whisky there.
As for the brave and cheerful Joe Congo, he obtained employment as a cook in the officers’ mess at Fort McPherson, and he was never tired of telling of the stirring times he had in “Cap’n Runnin’ Water’s” village.