se. Instantly--for the
attack was preconcerted--came the reports of two or three guns, and the
twanging of a dozen bows, and the savage hero, mortally wounded, pitched
forward headlong to the ground. Rouleau was present, and told me the
particulars. The tumult became general, and was not quelled until
several had fallen on both sides. When we were in the country the feud
between the two families was still rankling, and not likely soon to
cease.

Thus died Mahto-Tatonka, but he left behind him a goodly army of
descendants, to perpetuate his renown and avenge his fate. Besides
daughters he had thirty sons, a number which need not stagger the
credulity of those who are best acquainted with Indian usages and
practices. We saw many of them, all marked by the same dark complexion
and the same peculiar cast of features. Of these our visitor, young
Mahto-Tatonka, was the eldest, and some reported him as likely to
succeed to his father's honors. Though he appeared not more than
twenty-one years old, he had oftener struck the enemy, and stolen more
horses and more squaws than any young man in the village. We of the
civilized world are not apt to attach much credit to the latter
species of exploits; but horse-stealing is well known as an avenue
to distinction on the prairies, and the other kind of depredation is
esteemed equally meritorious. Not that the act can confer fame from
its own intrinsic merits. Any one can steal a squaw, and if he chooses
afterward to make an adequate present to her rightful proprietor,
the easy husband for the most part rests content, his vengeance falls
asleep, and all danger from that quarter is averted. Yet this is
esteemed but a pitiful and mean-spirited transaction. The danger is
averted, but the glory of the achievement also is lost. Mahto-Tatonka
proceeded after a more gallant and dashing fashion. Out of several dozen
squaws whom he had stolen, he could boast that he had never paid for
one, but snapping his fingers in the face of the injured husband, had
defied the extremity of his indignation, and no one yet had dared to lay
the finger of violence upon him. He was following close in the footsteps
of his father. The young men and the young squaws, each in their way,
admired him. The one would always follow him to war, and he was esteemed
to have unrivaled charm in the eyes of the other. Perhaps his impunity
may excite some wonder. An arrow shot from a ravine, a stab given in the
dark, require no