At last the soldiers were allowed to charge, and they cleared out the rifle pits at a rush. The battle was won, with a loss of eight killed, including four officers, and forty-six wounded. Riel escaped, but a few days afterwards he was caught not far away by a party of scouts. Dumont fled to the States, and the rank and file of the misguided rebels laid down their arms. The news travelled swiftly to the west, and Poundmaker saw that the game was up. One afternoon, therefore, when I had crossed over to the south shore of the river at Battleford, I met the most pathetic and picturesque procession I have ever seen: the Indian chiefs riding in to surrender. Here was Poundmaker at their head—tall and gaunt, with a strong hooked nose, his long black hair hanging down his back in a score of tight little plaits, each bound round at intervals of an inch or two with brass wire. His clothing was far from royal; a pair of shapeless blanket trousers or shaps, a colored cotton shirt, an old tweed waistcoat and no coat at all. But his keen and dignified face was that of a king, and though he was too thorough an Indian to show the least sign of his feelings, I could not help pitying the fallen leader in his deep humiliation. [Illustration] _On the Battlefield—_ _Friends Again_ [Illustration] _A Horse Ranch_ [Illustration] _Where no Trees Grew—Forestry_ _Station, Indian Head_ [Illustration] _Quality Raising Quality—_ _School Fair Prize Winners_ Around him rode his allies and lieutenants. No two of them were dressed alike. One gentleman wore a black “wide-awake” hat and a long blue naval frock-coat with brass buttons, hanging over the usual dirty blanket breeches. Another wore on his head the whole skin of a big otter, its teeth grinning in front and its tail hanging down behind. Still another had stuck feathers in his topknot, and a fourth wore a hard felt Derby hat adorned with fluttering ribbons of many colors. All of them had washed the yellow war-paint off their faces, discarded their guns, and rode on, silent and impassive as statues, to meet any dreadful fate that might be in store for them. General Middleton, newly arrived from his victory at Batoche, held his court in the open air, sitting on a campstool for bench, with an interpreter by his side. Poundmaker sat before him on the ground, the rest of the prisoners squatting around in a semi-circle at a more respectful distance. Poundmaker, being severely questioned by the General, denied having any intention of fighting; nor had he ever promised to help Riel. He did not know what Indians had committed murder or robbery.