Red Iron was a handsome Indian, an athlete, six feet in his moccasins, with a large, well-developed head, aquiline nose, thin lips, but with intelligence and resolution beaming all over his countenance.
RED IRON.
When brought into the presence of Governor Ramsey he walked with a firm, lordly tread, and was clad in half military and half Indian costume. When he came in he seated himself in silence, which was not broken until through an interpreter the Governor asked him what excuse he had to offer for not coming to the council when sent for.
Red Iron, when he arose to his feet to reply, did so with a Chesterfieldian grace, allowing his blanket to fall from his shoulders, and, intentionally dropping his pipe of peace. He stood before the Governor for a moment in silence, with his arms folded, his bearing betraying perfect self-composure, a defiant smile playing upon his lips. In a firm voice he said:
Red Iron—“I started to come, but your braves drove me back.”
Governor—“What excuse have you for not coming the second time I sent for you?”
Red Iron—“No other excuse than I have already given you.”
When the Governor, as Commissioner of Indian Affairs, informed this proud chief that, by virtue of his office, he would break him of his chieftianship it appealed to his pride, and he said:
“You break me? I was elected chief by my tribe. You can’t break me.”