than that. Some busy themselves building a fire near
by; others bring pieces of flint, spear points, jagged fragments of
rock, and heat them in it. The prisoner, dusty, torn, parched with
thirst, and bleeding from many wounds, looks on with perfect
indifference. Snoqualmie comes and gazes at him; the prisoner does not
notice him, is seemingly unconscious of his presence.

By and by a band of hunters ride up from a long excursion. They have
heard nothing of the trouble. With them is a young Bannock who is
visiting the tribe. He rides up with his Cayuse comrades, laughing,
gesticulating in a lively way. The jest dies on his lips when he
recognizes the Bannock who is tied to the stake. Before he can even
think of flight, he is dragged from his horse and bound,--his whilom
comrades, as soon as they understand the situation, becoming his
bitterest assailants.

For it is war again, war to the death between the tribes, until, two
centuries later, both shall alike be crushed by the white man.

At length the preparations are complete, and the women and children,
who have been swarming around and taunting the captives, are brushed
aside like so many flies by the stern warriors. First, the young
Bannock who has just come in is put where he must have a full view of
the other. Neither speaks, but a glance passes between them that is
like a mutual charge to die bravely. Snoqualmie comes and stands
close by the prisoner and gives directions for the torture to begin.

The Bannock is stripped. The stone blades that have been in the fire
are brought, all red and glowing with heat, and pressed against his
bare flesh. It burns and hisses under the fiery torture, but the
warrior only sneers.

"It doesn't hurt; you can't hurt me. You are fools. You don't know how
to torture."[4]

No refinement of cruelty could wring a complaint from him. It was in
vain that they burned him, cut the flesh from his fingers, branded his
cheek with the heated bowl of the pipe he had broken.

"Try it again," he said mockingly, while his flesh smoked. "I feel no
pain. We torture your people a great deal better, for we make them cry
out like little children."

More and more murderous and terrible grew the wrath of his tormentors,
as this stream of vituperation fell on their ears. Again and again
weapons were lifted to slay him, but Snoqualmie put them back.

"He can suffer more yet," he said; and the words were like a glimpse
into the cold, merciless hea