Free John Ermine of the Yellowstone by Frederic Remington Page A

to go down the cañon without firing on them. In the early morning we heard the Dakotahs coming;
they rode down the cut before our faces, not knowing we were there. When Long-Horse gave his war-whoop, we all fired, and jumping on our ponies charged into them. The ground was covered with dying
horses and men. My heart grew big, father; everything before my eyes swam red, and I do not remember much except that I rode behind a big Dakotah and shot him in the back. He fell from his horse to
the ground and tried to gain his feet, but I rode the pack-pony over him, knocking him down so that he lay still. I turned round and shot him again before he died, and then I took his hair. He had
a beautiful head-dress of feathers, which I took, but I left his gun, for it was heavy and a poor one. I chased his pony, the fine war-horse which is out in the stable. The Dakotahs who were not
killed had all run away, so I ran the dead man’s pony back to camp, where with the help of other Indians I caught him. Long-Horse was killed, and a few Absaroke wounded, but we got many
scalps, one of which is mine.
    “The white soldiers took me to their lodge and gave me coffee which was heavy with sugar. They spoke your language to me, but I could not understand much of it. A half-Indian man talked
the Absaroke for me in their tongue, and when I said I was a Crow—for that is what the white men call us—they laughed until my heart grew bad. They asked me if there were any more Crows
whose hair was the color of the dry grass, and then they continued to laugh. They said I must have been born on a frosty morning. I did not know what to say, but I saw their hearts warmed to me,
and I did nothing. They gave me cartridges, blankets, sugar, and coffee, until the old pack-pony could carry no more. The big chief of the white men wanted me to stay with him, and promised to give
me anything I wanted from the wagons. He talked long with the warriors, asking them to leave me with him, and the Absaroke said he could have me, but I did not want to stay. At one time I thought
the white soldiers were going to make me stay, for they took me on their shoulders and carried me about the camp, laughing and yelling. I was afraid. Those men were bigger than Indians, and,
father, their arms were as hard and strong as the gray bear’s. They were always laughing; they roared like the buffalo bulls.
    “My color is the same as theirs, father; many of them had hair like mine, though they cut it short. I am a Crow, but I do not understand these things.” Whereat the boy fell into a
deep meditation.
    Cautiously the hermit approached. “Your heart warms to the white man, does it not, my son?”
    “Yes, all white men are good to me; they give me everything I want; they are rich, and their hearts are big. They do not know how to keep their horses; they are fools about them, and they
mount from the wrong side. I never heard a white man speak to a horse in that camp. When they walk up to a pony, the pony does not know whether they come as a friend or an enemy. Some day I am
going to Ashar-Ra, where the white soldiers live. They told me that when I came they would load my pony down with gifts. But I must first learn to talk as you do, father.”
    Here, at last, was light to brighten the hopes of the hermit. The boy’s ambition had been aroused. What if he had gone to war, and what if he did have the much-treasured scalp in his
possession? He had only followed the hermit’s advice to his tribe concerning war. Then, too, the old man had picked up newspapers at the traders’ which told of the invasion of the Black
Hills by the white miners. He knew this would provoke war with the Sioux, and it occurred to him that the best possible way to introduce White Weasel to his own people would be through contact with
the army. He could go with them, and they might reclaim him. He could not possibly go through the industrial institutions, but he must speak English. There was