They then asked me, through the Crow interpreter, if I was in such and such a battle between their nation and the Crows, all of which questions I answered truthfully.
"Do you remember that in such a battle we lost such a brave?" describing him.
"Yes."
"Who killed him?"
"I did." Or, if I did not kill him, I would tell them the name of the Crow who did.
"Did he fight well?"
"Yes, he fought well."
"He died like a brave man, then!" they would ejaculate.
"Were you in such a battle?" asked another.
"Yes."
"Did you see such a warrior fall?"
"Yes."
"Did he fight strong like a brave?"
"No, he did not fight well."
"Ugh! he was no brave; he deserved to be killed."
In battle every warrior has his personal device painted on his shield, chosen according to his fancy. My "armorial bearing" was a crescent, with a green bird between the horns, and a star on each side the field. I described my novel device, and their was a great movement among them, for most of them distinctly recollected that shield, and I saw myself rising in their estimation. Their brave hearts rejoiced to have a true warrior before them, for they esteemed me as brave as themselves.
One of their great chiefs, named the Bob-tailed Horse, arose, and asked me if I remembered the battle on Pole Creek. I replied that I did.
"You killed me there," he said, "but I did not die;" and he pointed out two scars upon his chest, just below the lower rib, where the balls from my gun entered, and which must have killed anybody but an Indian.
"Where did I hit you?" he asked.
"Ugh!" said I; "you missed me."
Old Bark then said, "Warrior, you killed me once too: look here;" and he withdrew the hair from his right temple, and I
