the woods and the river.

"Ah, he is swift; he will save himself," thought Tawasuota.

All the Indians had now spied the fugitive; they yelled and fired at him
again and again, as if they were shooting at a running deer; but he
only ran faster. Just as he had reached the very edge of the sheltering
timber a single shot rang out, and he fell headlong.

A loud war-whoop went up, for many believed that this was one of the men
who had stolen their trust funds.

Tawasuota continued to sit and smoke in the shade while the carnage and
plunder that he had set on foot proceeded on all sides of him. Presently
men began to form small parties to cross the river on their mission of
death, but he refused to join any of them. At last, several of the older
warriors came up to smoke with him.

"Ho, nephew," said one of them with much gravity, "you have precipitated
a dreadful calamity. This means the loss of our country, the destruction
of our nation. What were you thinking of?"

It was the Wahpeton chief who spoke, a blood-relation to Tawasuota. He
did not at once reply, but filled his pipe in silence, and handed it
to the man who thus reproached him. It was a just rebuke; for he was a
brave man, and he could have refused the request of his chief to open
the massacre.

At this moment it was announced that a body of white soldiers were on
the march from Fort Ridgeley. A large body of warriors set out to meet
them.

"Nephew, you have spilled the first blood of the white man; go, join in
battle with the soldiers. They are armed; they can defend themselves,"
remarked the old chief, and Tawasuota replied:

"Uncle, you speak truth; I have committed the act of a coward. It was
not of my own will I did it; nevertheless, I have raised my weapon, and
I will fight the whites as long as I live. If I am ever taken, they
will first have to kill me." He arose, took up his gun, and joined the
war-party.

The dreadful day of massacre was almost ended. The terrified Sioux women
and children had fled up the river before the approaching troops. Long
shafts of light from the setting sun painted every hill; one side red as
with blood, the other dark as the shadow of death. A cloud of smoke
from burning homes hung over the beautiful river. Even the permanent
dwellings of the Indians were empty, and all the teepees which had
dotted with their white cones the west bank of the Minnesota had
disappeared. Here and there were small groups of warriors