Mr. Stuart Was On The Bank Of A River,
At A Short Distance From The Camp, When He Heard The Alarm Cry -
"Indians!
Indians!
-To arms! to arms!"
A mounted Crow galloped past the camp, bearing a red flag. He
reined his steed on the summit of a neighboring knoll, and waved
his flaring banner. A diabolical yell now broke forth on the
opposite side of the camp, beyond where the horses were grazing,
and a small troop of savages came galloping up, whooping and
making a terrific clamor. The horses took fright, and dashed
across the camp in the direction of the standard-bearer,
attracted by his waving flag. He instantly put spurs to his
steed, and scoured off followed by the panic-stricken herd, their
fright being increased by the yells of the savages in their rear.
At the first alarm, Mr. Stuart and his comrades had seized their
rifles, and attempted to cut off the Indians who were pursuing
the horses. Their attention was instantly distracted by whoops
and yells in an opposite direction.
They now apprehended that a reserve party was about to carry off
their baggage. They ran to secure it. The reserve party, however,
galloped by, whooping and yelling in triumph and derision. The
last of them proved to be their commander, the identical giant
joker already mentioned. He was not cast in the stern poetical
mold of fashionable Indian heroism, but on the contrary, was
grievously given to vulgar jocularity. As he passed Mr. Stuart
and his companions, he checked his horse, raised himself in his
saddle, and clapping his hand on the most insulting part of his
body, uttered some jeering words, which, fortunately for their
delicacy, they could not understand.
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