He reined
his steed on the summit of a neighboring knoll, and waved his flaring
banner. A diabolical yell now broke forth on the opposite side of the
camp, beyond where the horses were grazing, and a small troop of savages
came galloping up, whooping and making a terrific clamor. The horses
took fright, and dashed across the camp in the direction of the
standard-bearer, attracted by his waving flag. He instantly put spurs
to his steed, and scoured off followed by the panic-stricken herd, their
fright being increased by the yells of the savages in their rear.
At the first alarm, Mr. Stuart and his comrades had seized their rifles,
and attempted to cut off the Indians who were pursuing the horses. Their
attention was instantly distracted by whoops and yells in an opposite
direction.
They now apprehended that a reserve party was about to carry off their
baggage. They ran to secure it. The reserve party, however, galloped by,
whooping and yelling in triumph and derision. The last of them proved to
be their commander, the identical giant joker already mentioned. He was
not cast in the stern poetical mold of fashionable Indian heroism, but
on the contrary, was grievously given to vulgar jocularity. As he passed
Mr. Stuart and his companions, he checked his horse, raised himself
in his saddle, and clapping his hand on the most insulting part of his
body, uttered some jeering words, which, fortunately for their delicacy,
they could not understand.
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