In the midst of this several white men, garbed as Indians, but with their faces painted, entered. A moment only was needed to become acquainted with the state of affairs, and then one of them, a squatty individual, who had long been a pest to the border, under the name of Black Sculley, spoke a few words in the ear of Sitting Bull. Whatever he said does not concern my narrative, but it had its effect upon the chief, who immediately became calm, and made a motion toward one who stood at the entrance of the lodge as a sort of door-keeper. This individual signaled the waiting chiefs outside, and in another moment fully forty well-known leading Sioux were clustered together. Indian councils from the time of Red Jacket and Tecumseh back to time immemorial have been windy affairs, in which much eloquence and debate was needed to settle that which had already been decided before the argument commenced; for being natural born orators the red sons of the plains and forest liked to hear their own voices. In contrast with these, this council was very brief, only lasting about five minutes. This proved that their dealings with the whites had affected the redskins. After the chiefs separated, there was a wild commotion in the immense village. Horses neighed, dogs barked, men shouted, and the din was increased by the thunder of hoofs as squad after squad of mounted braves, led by their chiefs, dashed down to the river and forded it. In a lodge not far removed from that of the great chief, a leather-clad ranger lay, bound hand and foot. It was Bolly Wherrit, the old-time chum and friend of Pandy Ellis. He had been taken prisoner, fighting against overwhelming numbers, and had lain here without food for over twenty-four hours. What his fate would doubtless be the old ranger knew well enough, but he had faced death too often to flinch now. Something seemed to trouble him, however, for he occasionally gave vent to a groan and rolled restlessly about.