the missionaries. The chiefs had great
confidence in my father, yet they would not commit themselves, since
their braves were clamoring for blood. Little Crow had been accused
of all the misfortunes of his tribe, and he now hoped by leading them
against the whites to regain his prestige with his people, and a part at
least of their lost domain.

There were moments when the pacifists were in grave peril. It was almost
daybreak when my father saw that the approaching calamity could not be
prevented. He and two others said to Little Crow: "If you want war, you
must personally lead your men to-morrow. We will not murder women and
children, but we will fight the soldiers when they come." They then
left the council and hastened to warn my brother-in-law, Faribault, and
others who were in danger.

Little Crow declared he would be seen in the front of every battle, and
it is true that he was foremost in all the succeeding bloodshed, urging
his warriors to spare none. He ordered his war leader, Many Hail, to
fire the first shot, killing the trader James Lynd, in the door of his
store.

After a year of fighting in which he had met with defeat, the
discredited chief retreated to Fort Garry, now Winnipeg, Manitoba,
where, together with Standing Buffalo, he undertook secret negotiations
with his old friends the Indian traders. There was now a price upon his
head, but he planned to reach St. Paul undetected and there surrender
himself to his friends, who he hoped would protect him in return for
past favors. It is true that he had helped them to secure perhaps the
finest country held by any Indian nation for a mere song.

He left Canada with a few trusted friends, including his youngest and
favorite son. When within two or three days' journey of St. Paul, he
told the others to return, keeping with him only his son, Wowinape, who
was but fifteen years of age. He meant to steal into the city by night
and go straight to Governor Ramsey, who was his personal friend. He was
very hungry and was obliged to keep to the shelter of the deep woods.
The next morning, as he was picking and eating wild raspberries, he was
seen by a wood-chopper named Lamson. The man did not know who he was.
He only knew that he was an Indian, and that was enough for him, so he
lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired, then ran at his best pace.
The brilliant but misguided chief, who had made that part of the country
unsafe for any white man to live in, sank