he choicest warriors instantly volunteered to follow
Blue John in this hazardous enterprise. They prepared for it with the
solemnity and devotion peculiar to the tribe. Blue John consulted his
medicine, or talismanic charm, such as every chief keeps in his lodge
as a supernatural protection. The oracle assured him that his enterprise
would be completely successful, provided no rain should fall before he
had passed through the defile; but should it rain, his band would be
utterly cut off.

The day was clear and bright; and Blue John anticipated that the skies
would be propitious. He departed in high spirits with his forlorn hope;
and never did band of braves make a more gallant display-horsemen and
horses being decorated and equipped in the fiercest and most glaring
style-glittering with arms and ornaments, and fluttering with feathers.

The weather continued serene until they reached the defile; but just as
they were entering it a black cloud rose over the mountain crest, and
there was a sudden shower. The warriors turned to their leader, as if to
read his opinion of this unlucky omen; but the countenance of Blue John
remained unchanged, and they continued to press forward. It was
their hope to make their way undiscovered to the very vicinity of the
Blackfoot camp; but they had not proceeded far in the defile, when they
met a scouting party of the enemy. They attacked and drove them among
the hills, and were pursuing them with great eagerness when they heard
shouts and yells behind them, and beheld the main body of the Blackfeet
advancing.

The second chief wavered a little at the sight and proposed an instant
retreat. "We came to fight!" replied Blue John, sternly. Then giving his
war-whoop, he sprang forward to the conflict. His braves followed
him. They made a headlong charge upon the enemy; not with the hope of
victory, but the determination to sell their lives dearly. A frightful
carnage, rather than a regular battle, succeeded. The forlorn band laid
heaps of their enemies dead at their feet, but were overwhelmed with
numbers and pressed into a gorge of the mountain; where they continued
to fight until they were cut to pieces. One only, of the thirty,
survived. He sprang on the horse of a Blackfoot warrior whom he had
slain, and escaping at full speed, brought home the baleful tidings to
his village.

Who can paint the horror and desolation of the inhabitants? The flower
of their warriors laid low, and a feroci