From the moment of my first shot from the ridge top—a shot fired at two hundred yards’ range—to my last onslaught upon the retreating trader, I had never lost my head; eye, hand, and brain had worked together, and I had unconsciously timed every move to the demand of the passing moment.
I fully realized the reasons why Red Cloud had decided not to involve me in his struggle with the trader, but I could not help saying to my friend when we were about to leave the spot, “We were to have been brothers in war, as well as in peace. You have not kept your word fairly with me.”
“All’s well that ends well,” said the Sioux. “Henceforth our fights shall be shared evenly between us.”
Having stripped the dead horse of his saddle and trappings, I mounted one of the captured animals, and his load divided between the other animals, the whole party set out at a rapid pace for our camp.
[CHAPTER IX.]
We again go West—Hiding the trail—Red and white for once in harmony—Peace and plenty—An autumn holiday—We select a winter’s camp—The Forks—Hut-building—Our food supply—The autumn hunt—The Great Prairie—Home thoughts—Indian instincts—The Lake of the Winds—Buffalo—Good meat—A long stalk—The monarch of the waste—A stampede—Wolves—The red man’s tobacco.
As we rode back to camp, the Sioux learned from the scout all that had happened in the camp of the Assineboines, from the time that he had himself brought news of the presence in the hills of the disabled Cree and his protectors, until the moment when he had been captured by the united efforts of the dog and his masters.