ten away the
hare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed his
hands, untied himself and escaped.

Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counsel
with Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on the
Missouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory.
The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year.
Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep track
of the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.

Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could not
close my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I had
no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great
success. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and I
heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast.
With hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, the
last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and
skins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one was
busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal
greed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well might
they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would follow
a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp
was laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for they
were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from
gluttony at their masters' tents.

Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and
plastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voices
of the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chanting
the song of the buffalo hunt:

Now list to the song of the buffalo hunt,
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave!
We are _Bois-Brules_, Freemen of the plains,
We choose our chief! We are no man's slave!

Up, riders, up, ere the early mist
Ascends to salute the rising sun!
Up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds
Sniff morning air for the hunter's gun!

They lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass,
Down in the gorge, where the prairie dips.
We've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze,
Where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips.

We've followed their tracks from the rolling plain
Through s