"Well, Carey, it was just your luck to be in at the death of the most noted of Indian chiefs, and to escape complete annihilation afterward. I have heard you spoken of as a man of destiny and a man of luck, and if the two can be reconciled I believe you are both," a young infantry officer said, sauntering up and joining the group.
"Well, lieutenant, you can carry the body of the dead chief into headquarters when you will," the commander remarked.
"Yes, and no one can now say that Sitting Bull is not a good Indian," ventured a cavalry lieutenant, but though his remark was appreciated he was "frowned down" for appearance's sake.
But he was sustained by Kit Carey's decided response, almost vehement in fact:
"Yes, and when there are many more Indians made good in the same way this whole frontier will be the better for it. It is their nature to be savage, to rebel against restraint, and yet when they do unbury the hatchet they are not put down as they should be, with a lesson that will last them for all time, and which will do more to teach them civilization than anything else that can be done. The moment a redskin is killed certain humanitarians raise a howl of horror, not seeming to care how many officers and soldiers are slain, or the wives of settlers sacrificed, and their homes raided by these red wards of the Government; but, pardon me, I did not mean to speak so warmly upon a subject an officer, I suppose, has no right to discuss; but, mark my words, the killing of Sitting Bull will be denounced as cowardly, investigated, and wept over by people in the East, when, had his capture or death been delayed six hours longer, he would have led thousands of warriors into the field and deluged this whole borderland with the blood of settlers, their wives and children, not to speak of the soldiers," and Kit Carey wheeled on his heel and strode away, while the looks that passed between those who had heard his words showed that he had voiced the sentiments of those who understood the situation as it was.
CHAPTER VII.
The body of Sitting Bull was carried to headquarters and decently buried, and many a brave fellow who wore the Blue breathed more freely, knowing well that in the grave lay at rest one whose thunder tones in life would have led his people to their destruction triumphantly.
They knew also that the thirst to avenge their leader would not inflame the hearts of his people, as his words, urging them to strike their pale-face foes, would have done had he lived.