"They have taken me: what say you to it?"

Men poured out of the neighboring houses, and in a few minutes the
police were themselves surrounded with an excited and rapidly increasing
throng. They harangued the crowd in vain; Sitting Bull's blood was up,
and he again appealed to his men. His adopted brother, the Assiniboine
captive whose life he had saved so many years before, was the first to
fire. His shot killed Lieutenant Bull Head, who held Sitting Bull by the
arm. Then there was a short but sharp conflict, in which Sitting Bull
and six of his defenders and six of the Indian police were slain, with
many more wounded. The chief's young son, Crow Foot, and his devoted
"brother" died with him. When all was over, and the terrified people had
fled precipitately across the river, the soldiers appeared upon the brow
of the long hill and fired their Hotchkiss guns into the deserted camp.

Thus ended the life of a natural strategist of no mean courage and
ability. The great chief was buried without honors outside the cemetery
at the post, and for some years the grave was marked by a mere board at
its head. Recently some women have built a cairn of rocks there in token
of respect and remembrance.

RAIN-IN-THE-FACE

The noted Sioux warrior, Rain-in-the-Face, whose name once carried
terror to every part of the frontier, died at his home on the Standing
Rock reserve in North Dakota on September 14, 1905. About two months
before his death I went to see him for the last time, where he lay upon
the bed of sickness from which he never rose again, and drew from him
his life-history.

It had been my experience that you cannot induce an Indian to tell a
story, or even his own name, by asking him directly.

"Friend," I said, "even if a man is on a hot trail, he stops for a
smoke! In the good old days, before the charge there was a smoke. At
home, by the fireside, when the old men were asked to tell their brave
deeds, again the pipe was passed. So come, let us smoke now to the
memory of the old days!"

He took of my tobacco and filled his long pipe, and we smoked. Then I
told an old mirthful story to get him in the humor of relating his own
history.

The old man lay upon an iron bedstead, covered by a red blanket, in a
corner of the little log cabin. He was all alone that day; only an old
dog lay silent and watchful at his master's feet.

Finally he looked up and said with a pleasant smile:

"True, friend; it is the