That Buffalo Bill’s interview with the powerful chief of the Dakota nation was fruitless is a matter of history. The Napoleon of the Sioux would hear to no terms. He was defiant. He said his people had been robbed, and now the Great Father at Washington had demanded the land on which they lived. The white man with the pick and shovel, and with traps and gun were killing off and driving the game and fur from the red man’s hunting grounds. They would move no more. If the red man was to be driven from the face of the earth it must be done with bullet and steel. The Indian chief would listen to no argument or appeal. Crazy Horse, who had combined forces with Sitting Bull, held the same views and determination. Both recognized and proclaimed the friendship of Pa-e-has-ka, the Long Hair, to their followers, but they were obdurate. Pa-e-has-ka’s tongue was straight, and he did not know of all the crooked tongues of his people. If the Sioux were to be moved let the white soldiers come and move them. Such were the replies to the scout’s entreaties for the red man and the white brothers. He would have averted war, but they would fight, and such must be the report of Buffalo Bill to the Great Father at Washington. The scout shook hands with Sitting Bull sadly, and the immobile countenance of the chief expressed less of his emotions than did the warm pressure of Pa-e-has-ka’s hand. The return to the heavy hills along what is now known as Pryor Creek, or rather to the range lying between that river and Beauvais Creek, was without incident, and nothing but the most friendly feeling was expressed by the Indians met. These parties frequently asked for information concerning the whereabouts of the headquarters of Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Spotted Tail, Red Cloud, and others. They were little bands of braves contributed by tribes far and near going to the aid of the uprising organized by Sitting Bull. The bloody war which followed in the next few months is well within the memory of the present generation, and it behooves all well-regulated boyish minds to familiarize themselves with that important part of our nation’s history, but which it is not my province to relate. CHAPTER XXX. HIDE-RACK’S ADVENTURES. As the sun sank behind the gray haze of the mountain peaks that backed the purple of the foothills of the Great Continental Divide, two men stole down to a roily creek and sought something floatable on which to cross. This pair, pitiable in haggard faces and half-clad forms, and staggering with the weakness which long journeyings and hunger had wrought, furtively studied the narrow radius of the crooked gash the creek made in the plain. That they feared pursuit any observer would have said; that hope was low and endurance on its last legs was evident. Crouching there, their hollow eyes eagerly seeking means of placing this slight barrier between them and their expected pursuers, they saw a lone Indian paddling his canoe up the creek.