crept forth like shadows from the lodges throughout the
camp and crowded around the grave, a mute and gloomy throng.

The bell was rung again, and the dark crowd became motionless as
statues. Then Washington in a mournful monotone repeated what I
supposed to be prayers for the dead. At the end of each prayer the
little bell was rung and responses came out of the depths of the
surrounding darkness. Then the squaws chanted a wild funeral song in
tones of surpassing plaintiveness. At its close the bell tinkled once
more, and the figures that surrounded the grave vanished as darkly
as they came. Washington, one or two warriors and ourselves alone
remained.

"You like--see--him--dead man?" asked Washington.

The question was addressed to me.

I never want to look on a dead face if I can avoid it; so with
thanks I declined. Washington seemed a little disappointed, as if he
considered we showed a somewhat uncourteous want of interest in the
deceased. Noticing this, the lieutenant said he would like to see the
dead man's face, and, preceded by Washington, we moved toward the
bundle of blankets and buffalo-robes that lay by the side of the
grave. Washington threw back the buffalo-robes, and a bright gleam of
the cottonwood fire disclosed the upturned face of the dead Nez Perce
and lightened up the long, thick locks of glossy blue-black hair. It
was the face of a man about thirty--bold, clear-cut features and long,
aquiline nose: a good face and a strong face it seemed in death.

When we had looked upon the rigid features a few moments, Washington
covered the face of his dead brother. The body, coffined in blankets
and skins, was placed in the grave, and the men began to throw the
earth upon it.

"That's--all," said Washington. "Come!"

And he moved away toward our tent.

He seemed to think some apology necessary for the simplicity of the
ceremonial. "If," said he, "Chapman [the interpreter]--he tell--we
sleep here to-morrow--we put dead man--in ground--when sun he ver'
litt'; an' Yoseph he come--an' you come--an' I come--all come--white
man an' Injun."

"He was a fine-looking young man," I remarked, alluding to the dead
Indian.

Washington was pleased by the compliment to his departed brother.
He stopped short, and, turning toward me, said, "Yes, he fine young
man--good man--good young man."

"I thought he was rather an oldish man," remarked the lieutenant.

"No, no," replied Washington, touching his head--"all b