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 Sept. 24th. The missionaries, accompanied by a great number of Indians, precede the camp on its way to Fort Lewis, now only a few miles off. I am accosted by a little Pegan chief, who invites me to smoke. He tells me that he has come to the determination of settling at the Fort an unfortunate personal difficulty between himself {330} and another chief of the Blood Indian tribe. "I am going to meet," said he, "my mortal enemy, a Blood Indian chieftain, renowned for his courage, but much more for his wicked heart. He treacherously murdered a Nez-Percé, while under my protection. I should be dishonored forever if I did not avenge this shameful act, and wash the stain from my nation in his blood. I shot the murderer in his own lodge—he did not die—his wound is healed—he awaits my arrival, resolved to kill me. I dread him not, for I also am a chief. I have heard your words, and other feelings have crept over my heart. Black-gown, hear what I am about to do: I will present to him the best horse of my band to cover his wound; if he accepts it, well and good, if not, I must kill him." I offered myself as a mediator between them, before any steps should be taken, and promised him a favorable issue, according to the conviction of my own heart; for, as I had never witnessed the spilling of one drop of human blood, I felt assured that Almighty God would spare me the painful sight on the present occasion. We continue our route. The little chief and his Pegan friends prepare their arrows and load their guns. When in sight of the Fort, two {331} Black-Feet came running up towards us, to tell the little chief that if he approached any further, or any of his people, their lives would be in danger; and they returned as they came, running to announce the arrival of the Black-gowns. The bell of the Fort is sending forth a solemn peal, to honor, as it subsequently appeared,