Austin. Where was it? Who was Floyd.
Hunter. You shall hear. In the celebrated expedition of Clark and Lewis to the Rocky Mountains, they were accompanied by Serjeant Floyd, who died on the way. His body was carried to the top of a high green-carpeted bluff, on the Missouri river, and there buried, and a cedar post was erected to his memory. As I sat on his grave, and looked around me, the stillness and the extreme beauty of the scene much affected me. I had endured much toil, both in hunting and rowing; sometimes being in danger from the grizzly bears, and, at others, with difficulty escaping the war-parties of the Indians. My rifle had been busy, and the swan and the pelican, the antelope and the elk, had supplied me with food; and as I sat on a grave, in that beautiful bluff in the wilderness—the enamelled prairie, the thousand grassy hills that were visible, with their golden heads and long deep shadows, (for the sun was setting,) and the Missouri winding in its serpentine course, the whole scene was of the most beautiful and tranquil kind. The soft whispering of the evening breeze, and the distant, subdued and melancholy howl of the wolf, were the only sounds that reached my ears. It was a very solitary, and yet a very delightful hour.
Basil. I should not like to be by myself in such a place as that.
Hunter. There is another high bluff, not many miles from the cedar post of poor Floyd, that is well known as the burial-place of Blackbird, a famous chief of the O-ma-haw tribe; the manner of his burial was extremely strange. As I was pulling up the river, a traveller told me the story; and, when I had heard it, we pushed our canoe into a small creek, that I might visit the spot. Climbing up the velvet sides of the bluff, I sat me down by the cedar post on the grave of Blackbird.
Austin. But what was the story? What was there strange in the burial of the chief?
Hunter. Blackbird on his way home from the city of Washington, where he had been, died with the small-pox. Before his death, he desired his warriors to bury him on the bluff, sitting on the back of his favourite war-horse, that he might see, as he said, the Frenchmen boating up and down the river. His beautiful white steed was led up to the top of the bluff, and there the body of Blackbird was placed astride upon him.
Brian. What a strange thing!
Hunter. Blackbird had his bow in his hand, his beautiful head dress of war-eagle plumes on his head, his shield and quiver at his side, and his pipe and medicine bag. His tobacco pouch was filled, to supply him on his journey to the hunting-grounds of his fathers; and he had flint and steel wherewith to light his pipe by the way. Every warrior painted his hand with vermilion, and then pressed it against the white horse, leaving a mark behind him. After the necessary ceremonies had been performed, Blackbird and his white war-horse were covered over with turf, till they were no more seen.
Austin. But was the white horse buried alive?
Hunter. He was. The turfs were put about his feet, then piled up his legs, then placed against his sides, then over his back, and lastly over Blackbird himself and his war-eagle plumes.