an immense body of them, well mounted, charging directly down upon our camp. Every man seized his rifle, and prepared for the living tornado. The general gave orders for no man to fire until he did. By this time the Indians were within half-pistol shot. Greenwood (one of our party) pronounced them Crows, and called out several times not to shoot. We kept our eyes upon our general; he pulled trigger, but his gun missed fire, and our camp was immediately filled with their warriors. Most fortunate was it for us that the general's gun did miss fire, for they numbered over a thousand warriors, and not a man of us would have escaped to see the Yellow Stone.
Greenwood, who knew the Crows, acted as interpreter between our general and the Indian chief, whose name was Ap-sar-o-ka Bet-set-sa, Sparrow-Hawk Chief.
After making numerous inquiries about our success in hunting, the chief inquired through the interpreter where we were from.
"From Green River," was the reply.
"You killed two Black Feet there?"
"Yes."
"Where are their scalps? My people wish to dance."
"Don't show them!" cried Greenwood to us.
Turning to the Indian: "We did not take their scalps."
"Ugh! that is strange."
During this colloquy I had buried my scalp in the sand, and concealed my leggings, knowing they had belonged to a Crow. The chief gave orders to his warriors to move on, many of them keeping with us on our road to their camp, which was but a short distance off.
Soon after reaching there, an Indian woman issued from a lodge and approached the chief. She was covered with blood, and, crying in the most piteous tones, addressed the chief; "These are the men that killed my son on Green River, and will you not avenge his death?"
She was almost naked, and, according to their custom when a near relative is slain, had inflicted wounds all over her body in token of her deep mourning.
The chief, turning to the general, then said,
