That the price of a white man's soul
No longer goes, in the mart of death,
Unpaid to its last dark goal.
"Wherefore, that your tribesmen may see and feel
The cost of a white man's wrong,
And to sweeten the rest of my mess-mate's kin,
Ye shall swing from a hempen thong."
He has slung the chief to the saddle-bow,
Triced up in his own raw-hide,
And has borne him back to the stage-house yard,