TWENTY YEARS IN THE ROCKIES. 73 



tinct and the war-notes and dances of six thousand souls 

 are hushed, while myriad camp-fires reflect fantastic images 

 gliding to and fro like goblins. 



The chieftains appear upon the scene, the signal for a 

 deafening outburst. The field groans, the hills tremble, the 

 assembled multitude pound the earth like war-horses ap- 

 proaching battle. Tepees are torn down, buffalo robes fly 

 in the air, ponies pull their picket pins, consternation seizes 

 the passion-drunk multitude. Some plunge into the river, 

 while others fall to the earth. The squaws shriek with ter- 

 ror, the children huddle together in bunches. Warriors be- 

 come insane, shooting their rifles and revolvers, brandish- 

 ing their knives, flourishing their war-clubs. Night wears 

 on and the braves one by one fall on the earth exhausted, 

 until the chant is gradually ended, and all sink to slumber, 

 except a few sentinels, who are posted lest some evil spirit 

 swoop down and exterminate them all. 



The horror of the slaughter seemed greater to us than 

 we had before realized. That such a massacre was possible 

 has been the wonder of all who have seen the battlefield. 

 But to one who has been through the wilds, and who knows 

 the cunning of the savages, there can be but one conclusion. 

 The trail that Custer and his men followed was made by 

 fully five hundred warriors of the Red Cloud, Sioux and 

 Cheyenne tribes. Their trail was easy to follow, but the pres- 

 ence of the bands that came in from the north and west were 

 not discovered until too late. Whether this was the fault 

 of the scouts or whether the blame should be attributed to 

 the officers will never be known, as those who were on the 

 field will forever remain silent. There is no doubt that our 

 army scouts have no superiors and that the art of trailing is 

 primarily American. We find scouts among the mountains 

 and on the plains, following the faintest of impressions. A 



