We were sitting late one evening, in the lodge of the chief, around the fire. There were about thirty Indians present, some were lying upon the floor, and others sitting huddled up, wrapped in their robes, with their unbending gaze fixed upon our faces. The servants were spreading our bear-skins and blankets, preparatory to our retiring for the night. While thus situated, the interpreter, after dwelling upon the desperate nature of our host, related to us the following anecdote, illustrative of his character. About a year previous to this, the Black Chief had by some means or other fallen into disgrace with his people. They shunned him, and refused to admit him to their councils, until by some heroic action, he should wipe off the stain upon his name. He knew that there was no resource; that the blood of an enemy alone, would retrieve his fame. He determined, therefore, to shed it, in a manner which even the most desperate of his own tribe, would not have dreamed of, and which would strike a salutary terror of his name, into the hearts of his hostile neighbours. Early one morning, taking his bow and quiver, he left his lodge, and started on foot for the Crow village, about two hundred miles distant. He set out upon his journey, without attendants, and singing his death-song. His tribe watched until he was out of sight; they knew not where he was going; he might return soon, in a day, in a month, and perhaps never. They knew his desperate character; they knew that his errand was one of blood; and they doubted not, that if he returned, he would bring home trophies, sufficient to place him once more, at the head of their councils.