And where am I in this stringent attitude? I am conscious that I am a captive and bound--a captive to Indians--to Arapahoes. Memory helps me to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano--by the Orphan Butte. Ha! why should I not be _upon_ the butte--on its summit? I remember going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth. For all that, I may have been brought up again. The savages may have borne me back to satisfy some whim? They often act in such strange fashion with, their vanquished victims. I must be on some eminence: since I cannot see the earth before me? In all likelihood, I am on the top of the mound. This will account for my not having a view of the ground. It will also explain the direction in which the voices are reaching me. Those who utter them are below upon the plain? The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my ears. I hear shouts that appear to be signals--words of command in the fierce guttural of the Arapaho. Other sounds seem nearer. I distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. They are Indian voices. As I listen they grow more distinct. The speakers are approaching me--the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground beneath my feet! They draw nigher and nigher. They are close to where I stand--so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body--but still I see them not. Their heads are below the line of my vision. I feel a hand--knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. I shudder with a horrid thought. I mistake the purpose. I hear the "wheek" that announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. The thong slackens, and drops off from my cheeks. My head is free: but the piece of wood between my teeth--it remains still gagging me firmly. I cannot get rid of that. I can now look below, and around me. I perceive the correctness of my conjecture. I am on the butte--upon its summit. I am close to the edge of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below. A painted Arapaho is standing on each side of me. One is a common warrior, with nought to distinguish him from his fellows. The other is a chief. Even without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage are easily identified. They are those of Red-Hand the truculent chieftain of the Arapahoes.