poorly garrisoned fort with rifle, hatchet and fire.

All over the territory, I may say, the Indians had now begun to sing
and dance, and to brandish their tomahawks. Their way of living
during late years has been altogether too slow, too dead-and-alive,
too unlike the ways of their ancestors, when once at least in each
year, every warrior returned to his lodge with scalp locks dangling
at his belt.

Les Gros Ventres for the time, forgot their corporosity, and began
to dance and howl, and declare that they would fight till all their
blood was spilt with M. Riel, or his adjutant M. Marton.

The Blackfeet began to hold pow-wows, and tell their squaws that
there would soon be good feasts. For many a day they had been casting
covetous eyes upon the fat cattle of their white neighbours. Along
too, came the feeble remnant of the once agile Salteaux, inquiring if
it was to be war; and if so, would there be big feasts?

"Oh, big feasts, big feasts," was the reply. "Plenty fat cattle in
the corrals; and heaps of, mange in the store." So the Salteaux were
happy, and, somewhat in their old fashion, went vaulting homewards.

Tidings of fight, and feast, and turmoil reached the Crees, and they
sallied out from the tents, while the large-eyed squaws sat silent,
marvelling what was to come of it all.

High into the air the Nez Perce thrust his nostril; for he had got
scent of the battle from afar. And last, but not least, came the
remnant of that tribe whose chief had shot Custer in the Black Hills.