FATHER WILBUR AS INDIAN AGENT, 1886 67
from his destination, and there rested until morning. With a fresh team, he reached Colwash's camp before noon and found the dance in full blast and torn toms beating time to their sing- ing of war songs, which made a din that would have made a heart less stout than his hesitate at the task ahead. Springing from his hack he walked to the door of the dance hall, where nearly the entire band of savages had collected as soon as they saw him make his appearance. The Indians at once attempted to block his way, as they had the Indian policemen previously. And then trouble began. His long, muscular arms began to revolve like the fans of a great windmill. The "siwash" ob- structors were pitched headlorig this way and that and were soon fairly running over each other in their attempt to escape those terrible flails. The road cleared, he seized the rascally old dreamer by the nape of the neck and literally yanked him out of the house headforemost, handcuffed him, picking him up bodily, and then pitched him into his hack, taking a seat by his side. No jeers or laughter followed him as he turned on his way back to the agency, as it had his discomfited policemen a few days previously. Those who were not rubbing their sore spots were simply wondering what was coming next. There are but few men who would have dared to have undertaken such a task alone. Unarmed he drove fifty miles over a lonely road, by the very spot where a former agent, A. J. Bolan, was bru- tally murdered in cold blood by a band of his own Indians, and to a camp of renegades collected from the various tribes throughout the country and numbering between one a'nd two hundred men, and single-handed forcibly takes his man from their midst, handcuffs him and drives away. The act was char- acteristic of the man. He feared God only.
