A SAD SCENE. 369 



small encampment of Indians. To our amazement they all 

 stood their ground, neither making hostile demonstrations 

 nor evincing any fear of us, and we immediately perceived 

 that they were some of the new " Treaty Indians." 



A few men were standing listlessly around, apparently 

 doing nothing, looking, it might be sulky, it might be 

 dejected ; and a number of women sat in a circle, rocking 

 themselves to and fro, and uttering a continuous low wail- 

 ing cry. 



Dismounting and stepping up to the group, I asked 

 an old Indian what was the matter. He answered by a 

 gesture, and pointed to a wickee-up close by. I looked 

 into it. There lay poor Pi-Nole ! He was evidently 

 in the last stage of an attack of malignant ague, and 

 although not in a state of unconsciousness, was delirious, 

 for he not only failed to recognise me, even as being a 

 white man, but in muttered tones addressed me as though 

 I had been someone else. Perhaps he thought I was a 

 spirit who can tell? The words he uttered could bear 

 that construction. Turning to the old Indian who was 

 standing by me, a sorrowful expression sdftening his stern 

 countenance, I shook my head and said, " Poor Pi-Nole, he 

 will be dead before many days." " He will be dead before 

 morning," was the reply. 



In a rude, unartificial, and inelegant jargon of In do- 

 Mexican, rendered impressive and intelligible by that extra- 

 ordinary product of savage intellect, the American-Indian 

 sign -language, the old man, pointing to his prostrate 

 leader, addressed me as follows : " He was a great brave, and 

 he was a chief. He must not die like a dog. No ; a chief 



B B 



