On the evening of the fourth day, he reached the Crow village; but waited at a short distance, concealed in a prairie, until it was completely dark. He then entered the village, and passed through its very centre. Several of the inhabitants were stirring, but the darkness was so great that they did not regard him particularly, and he passed on, undetected. At length he came to a lodge, a little apart from the rest, with a horse standing at the door, tied by a halter of buffalo hair. Peering over the bear-skin, which hung before the inner entrance, he beheld two Indians reclining in front of a fire. A few feet from them, a squaw was pounding corn, in a large wooden mortar; and at a little distance, was a child sleeping on the floor. The backs of all were turned towards the warrior, and he hesitated not a moment how to act. Drawing forth his knife with his left hand, and grasping his tomahawk in his right, he dashed into the building. With two blows, he clove the skulls of the men; he sheathed his knife in the heart of the woman, and dashed out the brains of the child. Having scalped his victims he mounted the horse at the door, and started off. He had gone but a few paces, before he observed an Indian making for the lodge. He felt a strong hankering after his scalp also; but there were several other Indians at hand, and he feared detection. Resisting therefore the powerful temptation, he turned away and galloped for the prairie. Scarcely had he got clear of the village, when it rang with yells and screams; and in a few moments, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and the sound of voices in hot pursuit. In a night chase, however, the pursued has always the advantage; he has but to dash forward, while his foes, must either stop to keep his trace, or follow at random. So it was with the Black Chief; and long before morning his horse had borne him, far beyond the sound of pursuit. He reached his village in safety; related his tale, and displayed his scalps. They hesitated not a moment, to believe him, for in recounting his exploits, an Indian never lies. He was received with honour; and once more resumed his seat in the councils of his nation. This is a picture of Indian warfare—to steal like an assassin upon an unarmed enemy, and butcher him without the slightest chance of resistance. Blood is what he seeks—no matter whether from the veins of man or woman—infancy or age. A scalp is his trophy; and is alike glorious, whether silvered with age, or torn from the reeking head of a youthful warrior. With the savage, a hankering for blood, is ambition—a relentless fury in shedding it, renown. During the whole time of the narration, the chief, unconscious that he was the subject of discourse, sat gazing upon the fire. His face was as calm and quiet as if no evil passion had ever harboured in his bosom—as if his hand had never been stained with blood, or his ears rung to the wild scream of the dying.