And flung her rider free;
And Ross has wrenched the knife from his hand
And smitten him to the ground;—
"Did ye think to win to the Bijou Hills,
Ye whelp of a Blackfoot hound?
"I had riddled your carcass this six miles back
And left ye to rot on the plain,
Had the blood of the slaughtered not called on me
That I hail ye to Peska again,
"To point this lesson to all your tribe.