When the warriors returned to camp, they brought their frightful trophies of blood-stained clothes and ghastly scalps.
My heart-sick eyes beheld the dreadful fruits of carnage; and, among the rest, I saw a woman’s scalp, with heavy chestnut hair, a golden brown, and four feet in length, which had been secured for its beauty. The tempting treasure lost the poor girl her life, which might have been spared; but her glorious locks were needed to hang on the chief’s belt.
Nearly all the flat-boats that passed down the Yellowstone River to the Missouri, from the mining regions, during that season, were attacked, and in some instances one or more of the occupants killed. The approach of this boat was known, and the Indians had ample time to plan their attack so that not a soul should escape.
That night the whole camp of braves assembled to celebrate the fearful scalp dance; and from the door of my tent I witnessed the savage spectacle, for I was ill, and, to my great relief, was not forced to join in the horrid ceremony.
A number of squaws occupied the center of the ring they formed, and the pitiless wretches held up the fresh scalps that day reaped in the harvest of death.
Around them circled the frantic braves, flourishing torches, and brandishing weapons, with the most ferocious barks and yells, and wild distortions of countenance.
Some uttered boasts of bravery and prowess, and others lost their own identity in mocking their dying victims in their agony.
Leaping first on one foot, then on the other, accompanying every movement with wild whoops of excitement, they presented a scene never to be forgotten.
The young brave who bore the beautiful locks as his trophy, did not join in the dance. He sat alone, looking sad.
I approached and questioned him, and he replied that he regretted his dead victim. He brought a blood-stained dress from his lodge, and told me it was worn by the girl with the lovely hair, whose eyes haunted him and made him sorry.