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came in, who offered to find the trail, and guide them to the Shoshone camp.
At once they marched; armed, braced, and eager for their work.
They caught the trail; they reached the camp; but only to find the braves and warriors flown, the squaws and children left.
The White men sulked and swore; their prey was gone, their vengeance baffled.
To pursue the flying bands seemed useless; for a Redskin, riding for his life, with nothing but his arms to carry, must leave a Pale-face with his stores and tents behind.
A council was convened.
What could they do?
“Do?”
exclaimed the Pai-Ute scout, “why, fire on the squaws.”
Fire on the squaws!
To hurt a woman is revolting to a White man's sense of honour.
Fire on the squaws!
“What is the use in firing on a lot of squaws?”
asked one of the number.
“ Ugh!”
sneered the scout, with Indian scorn for what he calls this Pale-face craze about the value of a woman's life; “ you fire into the camp; you shoot a score of squaws and papooses; then you see the braves ”
1875.
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