The brilliant colors that had been smeared on his visage told me more
forcibly than words could have done that his tribe was on the warpath.
It was a decidedly unpleasant discovery for me.

While he was asking me in the Sioux language what I was doing there,
and how many more were in the party, other braves began crowding
through the door till the little dugout was packed as full of Sioux
warriors as it could hold.

Outside I could hear the stamping of horses and the voices of more
warriors. I made up my mind it was all over but the scalping.

And then a stately old brave worked his way through the crowd and came
toward my bunk. It was plain from the deference accorded him by the
others that he was a chief. And as soon as I set eyes on him I
recognized him as old Rain-in-the-Face, whom I had often seen and
talked with at Fort Laramie, and whose children taught me the Sioux
language as we played about the wagon-beds together. Among these
children was the son who succeeded to the name of Rain-in-the-Face, and
who years later, it is asserted, killed General George A. Custer in the
massacre of the Little Big Horn.

I showed the chief my broken leg, and asked him if he did not remember
me. He replied that he did. I asked him if he intended to kill the boy
who had been his children's playmate. He consulted with his warriors,
who had begun busily to loot the cabin. After a long parley the old man
told me that my life would be spared, but my gun and pistol and all my
provisions would be regarded as the spoils of the war.

Vainly I pointed out that he might as well kill me as leave me without