
648 * A TRIP TO PIPESTONE QUARRY. 
rest under the protection of our newly found friends and our 
country’s flag. At Sioux Falls, near the top of the exposure, 
a layer of Pipestone occurs intercalated with the quartzite, 
which leads us to believe that the rock at the famous Quarry 
is the same, and we decide to visit it. After discussing the 
probabilities of there being roving parties of hostile Sioux in 
the vicinity, and the necessity for the presence of the good 
doctor in his hospital for a couple of days, it is finally agreed 
that he shall accompany us under the escort of an Indian 
guide given us by the Commandant. Our guide, we are 
assured, is “a pretty good Indian,” notwithstanding the fact 
that he was one of Little Crow’s band who were engaged 
in the massacres of New Ulm and Jackson, Minnesota—the 
recital of which, by the survivors, has made our hearts sick 
as we have listened to them, upon the scenes of the butcher- 
ies where the marks of their violence still remain—for is it 
not six years since all that happened? and did not the mis- 
sionaries labor faithfully with him during the two years of 
his imprisonment at Davenport for his crimes ? 
The morning rose clear and beautiful after a refreshing 
rain of the previous night, and off we go, “six precious 
souls,” including the reformed baby-killer, who rides before 
us on his pony with that posture and carriage peculiar to the 
Indian, his legs dangling upon each side as if every bone in 
them had been broken and had united by cartilaginous 
union, while we, the other five, seated in our camp wagon, 
follow upon the dim road or the’ tepe trail over the broad 
prairie, striving to keep in sight of our guide, who is some- 
times several miles ahead of us. Our course is about north 
north-east from the fort, and when we lose sight of the nar- 
row, interrupted belt of trees which skirts the Big Sioux, 
not another tree greets our vision in the whole journey of 
forty miles, save a single elm by the side of a small creek, 
where we halt to take our mid-day meal. Here our guide 
tells us we must gather a bundle of faggots from the willows 
of the brook, which last year’s fires had killed but not con- 

