In this month the Indians captured a white man, who was hunting on the prairie, and carried him far away from the haunts of white men, where they tied him hand and foot, after divesting him of all clothing, and left him to starve. He was never heard of afterward. There were twin children in one of the lodges, one of which sickened and died, and in the evening was buried. The surviving child was placed upon the scaffold by the corpse, and there remained all night, its crying and moaning almost breaking my heart. I inquired why they did this. The reply was, to cause the mate to mourn. The mother was on one of the neighboring hills, wailing and weeping, as is the custom among them. Every night nearly, there were women among the hills, wailing for their dead. CHAPTER XIV. LOST IN THE INDIAN VILLAGE—BLACK BEAR’S WHITE WIFE—A SMALL TEA PARTY—THE WHITE BOY-CAPTIVE, CHARLES SYLVESTER—THE SUN DANCE—A CONCILIATING LETTER FROM GENERAL SIBLEY—A PUZZLE OF HUMAN BONES—THE INDIAN AS AN ARTIST—I DESTROY A PICTURE AND PUNISHED WITH FIRE-BRANDS—A SICK INDIAN. About the 1st of October the Indians were on the move as usual, and by some means I became separated from the family I was with, and was lost. I looked around for them, but their familiar faces were not to be seen. Strangers gazed upon me, and, although I besought them to assist me in finding the people of my own tipi, they paid no attention to my trouble, and refused to do any thing for me. Never shall I forget the sadness I felt as evening approached, and we encamped for the night in a lonely valley, after a wearisome day’s journey. Along one side stood a strip of timber, with a small stream beside it. Hungry, weary, and lost to my people, with no place to lay my head, and after a fruitless search for the family, I was more desolate than ever. Even Keoku, or “Yellow Bird,” the Indian girl who had been given me, was not with me that day, making it still more lonely. [Illustration: The Sun Dance] I sat down and held my pony. It was autumn, and the forest wore the last glory of its gorgeous coloring. Already the leaves lay along the paths, like a rich carpet of variegated colors. The winds caught a deeper tone, mournful as the tones of an Æolian harp, but the air was balmy and soft, and the sunlight lay warm and pleasant, as in midsummer, over the beautiful valley, now occupied with numberless camps of tentless Indians. It seemed as if the soft autumn weather was, to the last moment, unwilling to yield the last traces of beauty to the chill embraces of stern winter, and I thought of the luxuries and comforts of my home. I looked back on the past with tears of sorrow and regret; my heart was overburdened with grief, and I prayed to die. The future looked like a dark cloud approaching, for the dread of the desolation of winter to me was appalling.