One night, after a fatiguing day, the emigrants went to bed, after placing sentries round the camp, rather to keep wild beasts off than through any other motive; the sentinels, accustomed not to be troubled, and fatigued by their day's labours, watched for a few moments, then their eyelids gradually sank, and they fell asleep. Their awakening was destined to be terrible.
About midnight, fifty Blackfeet, led by Natah Otann, glided like demons in the darkness, clambered into the encampment, and ere the Americans could seize their weapons, or even dream of defence, they were bound. Then a horrible scene took place, the frightful interludes of which the pen is impotent to describe. Natah Otann organised the massacre, if we may be allowed to employ the term, with unexampled coolness and cruelty. The chief of the party and his five servants were stripped and attached to trees, flogged, and martyrized, while the two lads were literally roasted alive in their presence. The mother, half mad with terror, escaped, carrying off her little girl in her arms: but, after running a long distance, her strength failed her, and she fell senseless. The Indians caught her up; imagining her to be dead, they disdained to scalp her; but they carried off the child, which she pressed to her bosom with almost herculean strength. The child was taken back to Natah Otann.
"What shall we do with it?" the warrior asked, who presented it to him.
"Into the fire!" he replied, laconically.
The Blackfoot calmly prepared to execute the pitiless order he had received.
"Stop!" the father cried with a piercing shriek. "Do not kill an innocent creature in that horrible manner. Are not the atrocious tortures you inflict on us enough?"
The Blackfoot hesitated, and looked at his chief; the latter reflected.
"Stay," he said, raising his hand, and addressing the emigrant; "you wish your child to live?"
"Yes!" the father answered.
"Good!" he answered, "I will sell you her life."