Here He
Fell In With The Crow Villages Or Bands, Who Treated Him With
Unusual Kindness, And Prevailed Upon Him To Take Up His Winter
Quarters Among Them.
The Crows at that time were struggling almost for existence with
their old enemies, the Blackfeet; who, in the past year, had
picked off the flower of their warriors in various engagements,
and among the rest, Arapooish, the friend of the white men.
That
sagacious and magnanimous chief had beheld, with grief, the
ravages which war was making in his tribe, and that it was
declining in force, and must eventually be destroyed unless some
signal blow could be struck to retrieve its fortunes. In a
pitched battle of the two tribes, he made a speech to his
warriors, urging them to set everything at hazard in one furious
charge; which done, he led the way into the thickest of the foe.
He was soon separated from his men, and fell covered with wounds,
but his self-devotion was not in vain. The Blackfeet were
defeated; and from that time the Crows plucked up fresh heart,
and were frequently successful.
Montero had not been long encamped among them, when he discovered
that the Blackfeet were hovering about the neighborhood. One day
the hunters came galloping into the camp, and proclaimed that a
band of the enemy was at hand. The Crows flew to arms, leaped on
their horses, and dashed out in squadrons in pursuit. They
overtook the retreating enemy in the midst of a plain. A
desperate fight ensued. The Crows had the advantage of numbers,
and of fighting on horseback. The greater part of the Blackfeet
were slain; the remnant took shelter in a close thicket of
willows, where the horse could not enter; whence they plied their
bows vigorously.
The Crows drew off out of bow-shot, and endeavored, by taunts and
bravadoes, to draw the warriors Out of their retreat. A few of
the best mounted among them rode apart from the rest. One of
their number then advanced alone, with that martial air and
equestrian grace for which the tribe is noted. When within an
arrow's flight of the thicket, he loosened his rein, urged his
horse to full speed, threw his body on the opposite side, so as
to hang by one leg, and present no mark to the foe; in this way
he swept along in front of the thicket, launching his arrows from
under the neck of his steed. Then regaining his seat in the
saddle, he wheeled round and returned whooping and scoffing to
his companions, who received him with yells of applause.
Another and another horseman repeated this exploit; but the
Blackfeet were not to be taunted out of their safe shelter. The
victors feared to drive desperate men to extremities, so they
forbore to attempt the thicket. Toward night they gave over the
attack, and returned all-glorious with the scalps of the slain.
Then came on the usual feasts and triumphs, the scalp-dance of
warriors round the ghastly trophies, and all the other fierce
revelry of barbarous warfare.
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