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 ial men.

They gave me another pistol, the best one of the two horses, and a trifle of money, and insisted that I should return to civilization.

I told them that that was impossible ; that I could not abandon my Indians ; besides, pursuit would run in that direction, and more blood would follow. I told them frankly that I should return to the Indians in the black forests of Mount Shasta ; and they let me have my own way.

I mounted my horse, shook hands with them soon, and almost in silence. I could not speak. I was choking with a new emotion. Injury and insult, oppression, persecution, mental agony, and wrongs almost intolerable, had not roused me; but now I drew my ba ttered hat down over my eyes and hid my face. The strong men turned their backs, as if embarrassed, looked down over the smoky camp, and I rode away in silence.

These two noble, manly-hearted men, heroes who never fought a battle, never had a quarrel, at last lie buried on the hills of Idaho. May the wild spring blossoms gather about them there ; may the partridge whistle in the tall brown grass of autumn, plaintive and tenderly, and the snows of winter fall, soft and beautiful, above their peaceful breasts.

I turned a spur of the mountain, through the wood, till I came to an open space that looked down over my Indian camp, and dismounting, made a signal, such as is used by the Indians in war.

This is done by making a bunch of dry grass or