t was his name,
rode in at the gate, turning neither to the right nor the left, but
casting glances askance at the groups of squaws who, with their mongrel
progeny, were sitting in the sun before their doors. The evil tidings
brought by The Horse were of the following import: The squaw of Henry
Chatillon, a woman with whom he had been connected for years by the
strongest ties which in that country exist between the sexes, was
dangerously ill. She and her children were in the village of The
Whirlwind, at the distance of a few days' journey. Henry was anxious to
see the woman before she died, and provide for the safety and support
of his children, of whom he was extremely fond. To have refused him
this would have been gross inhumanity. We abandoned our plan of joining
Smoke's village, and of proceeding with it to the rendezvous, and
determined to meet The Whirlwind, and go in his company.

I had been slightly ill for several weeks, but on the third night
after reaching Fort Laramie a violent pain awoke me, and I found myself
attacked by the same disorder that occasioned such heavy losses to the
army on the Rio Grande. In a day and a half I was reduced to extreme
weakness, so that I could not walk without pain and effort. Having
within that time taken six grains of opium, without the least beneficial
effect, and having no medical adviser, nor any choice of diet, I
resolved to throw myself upon Providence for recovery, using, without
regard to the disorder, any portion of strength that might remain to
me. So on the 20th of June we set out from Fort Laramie to meet The
Whirlwind's village. Though aided by the high-bowed "mountain saddle,"
I could scarcely keep my seat on horseback. Before we left the fort we
hired another man, a long-haired Canadian, with a face like an owl's,
contrasting oddly enough with Delorier's mercurial countenance. This was
not the only re-enforcement to our party. A vagrant Indian trader, named
Reynal, joined us, together with his squaw Margot, and her two nephews,
our dandy friend, The Horse, and his younger brother, The Hail Storm.
Thus accompanied, we betook ourselves to the prairie, leaving the beaten
trail, and passing over the desolate hills that flank the bottoms of
Laramie Creek. In all, Indians and whites, we counted eight men and one
woman.

Reynal, the trader, the image of sleek and selfish complacency, carried
The Horse's dragoon sword in his hand, delighting apparently in this
useless