go out and kill their enemy's cows.
They say it is only sport.
When a more deadly raid is meant, they call the Light Horse, the Mourning Band
, or some such Indian league, and riding to the settled parts, select a lonely ranch, surround the pales, rush on the doors, scalp every living male, eat up the food, set fire to the farms, and carry off the women to their camps.
In May last year a son of Little Robe, a Cheyenne chief, came over the border into Kansas
with his band.
His herds, he said, had been driven by White
thieves, and in revenge, he stole a herd of cattle from the nearest run. Some cavalry, then patrolling on the Kansas
line, gave chase, came up with the marauders, mauled the chief, and recovered the stolen stock.
Unable to meet the Whites in open field, the Cheyennes, in accordance with their custom and the genius of their league, are using the knife.
A man at the Agency breaks his leg, and Hollway, a son of the agency physician, is nursing the invalid, when a Cheyenne brave creeps into the sick man's hut, and plunges a knife into young Hollway's heart.
The next victims are two Irish herders, Monahan