Thinking that I was endeavoring to escape, they dragged me in the tent, brandishing their tomahawks and threatening vengeance.
After the lapse of half an hour some squaws came and took me back to the lodge of the chief, who was waiting for me, before his wounds could be dressed. He was very weak from loss of blood.
I never saw the wife of the chief afterward.
Indian surgery is coarse and rude in its details. A doctor of the tribe had pierced the arm of the chief with a long knife, probing in search of the ball it had received, and the wound thus enlarged had to be healed.
As soon as I was able to stand, I was required to go and wait on the disabled chief. I found his three sisters with him, and with these I continued to live in companionship.
One of them had been married, at the fort, to a white man, whom she had left at Laramie when his prior wife arrived.
She told me that they were esteemed friendly, and had often received supplies from the fort, although at heart they were always the enemy of the white man.
“But will they not suspect you?” asked I. “They may discover your deceit and punish you some day.”
She laughed derisively. “Our prisoners don’t escape to tell tales,” she replied. “Dead people don’t talk. We claim friendship, and they can not prove that we don’t feel it. Besides, all white soldiers are cowards.”
Shudderingly I turned away from this enemy of my race, and prepared to wait on my captor, whose superstitious belief in the healing power of a white woman’s touch led him to desire her services.