as men. Unsuspectingly he walked toward the guardhouse, when
Touch-the-Cloud suddenly turned back exclaiming: "Cousin, they will
put you in prison!"

"Another white man's trick! Let me go! Let me die fighting!"
cried Crazy Horse. He stopped and tried to free himself and draw
his knife, but both arms were held fast by Little Big Man and the
officer. While he struggled thus, a soldier thrust him through
with his bayonet from behind. The wound was mortal, and he died in
the course of that night, his old father singing the death song
over him and afterward carrying away the body, which they said
must not be further polluted by the touch of a white man. They hid
it somewhere in the Bad Lands, his resting place to this day.

Thus died one of the ablest and truest American Indians. His
life was ideal; his record clean. He was never involved in any of
the numerous massacres on the trail, but was a leader in
practically every open fight. Such characters as those of Crazy
Horse and Chief Joseph are not easily found among so-called
civilized people. The reputation of great men is apt to be
shadowed by questionable motives and policies, but here are two
pure patriots, as worthy of honor as any who ever breathed God's
air in the wide spaces of a new world.




SITTING BULL