274 BUFFALO LAND. 



band, and, flinging him across his horse in front of 

 the saddle, rode on out of the battle. 



For several hours indeed until the sun was low in 

 the heavens and the shadows crept into the valley 

 this terrible fray continued, the charging, shouting, 

 and firing being kept up until both combatants had 

 worked down the river so far that we could no longer 

 see them. 



It was approaching the dusk of evening when 

 White Wolf and his band rode back. We counted 

 them and found the original forty still alive. The 

 chief assured us they had killed "heap Pawnees," 

 whereupon some of us sallied forth to visit the bat- 

 tle-field. Three dead ponies lay there, and with a 

 disagreeable sensation we looked around, expecting to 

 discover the mangled riders near by. Not one was 

 visible, however, nor even the least sign of their 

 blood. The grass was not sodden with gore, nor did 

 a single rigid arm or aboriginal toe stick up in the 

 gathering gloom. Neither the wolves or buzzards 

 gathered over the field, and slowly the conviction 

 dawned upon us that Indian battles, like some other 

 things, are not always what they seem. 



As we turned again toward camp, the Professor, 

 dragging his spade after him, suggested that, in ac- 

 cordance with the reputed habits of these savages, 

 the Pawnees had perhaps carried off their dead. 

 But at the instant, only a short distance down the 

 river, the camp-fire of that miserable and all but 

 annihilated band glimmered forth. It was decidedly 

 too bold and cheerful for the use of twenty-five 

 ghosts, and we knew then that White Wolf had lied. 



