White crawled along on all-fours till he reached a stunted tree on the
brim of the ravine. There he halted, brought his rifle to his shoulder
in readiness to aim and raised himself slowly to his feet. He was about
to fire, when one of the Indians in the hole below spotted the
red-lined coat. There was a crack, a puff of smoke, and White toppled
over, with a bullet through his heart. The coat had caught the
attention of the savages, and thus I had been the innocent means of my
friend's death; for, with the soldiers pressing them so hard, it is not
likely that any of the warriors would have wasted a shot had they not
thought they were getting Pa-ho-has-ka. For a long time the Indians
believed that I would be a menace to them no more. But they discovered
their mistake later, and I sent a good many of them to the Happy
Hunting-Grounds as a sort of tribute to my friend.
Poor old White! A more faithful man never took a trail, nor a braver.
He was a credit to me, and to the name which General Sheridan had first
given him in derision, but which afterward became an honor, the name of
"Buffalo Chips."
When Terry and Crook's commands joined on the Yellowstone both commands
went into camp together and guards were placed to prevent surprise. The
scene was typical of the Old West, but it would astonish anyone whose
whole idea of warfare has been gained by a visit to a modern military
post or training camp, or the vast camps where the reserve forces are
drilled and equipped for the great European war.
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