It was after sunset when the white party reached the Indian village, where the red men had preceded them with their prisoner, and the former had not the opportunity of witnessing the first reception of the mournful news by the women and children of the tribe.  
But the commotion was very great when they arrived. The squaws were screaming and chattering, and one, the widow of the deceased warrior, was sitting beside his corpse on the grass, her head entirely enveloped in her blanket, rocking herself to and fro, and now and then emitting a wail of grief which seemed quite as genuine and intense as those which bereavement everywhere elicits in the world of civilization.
 
There was a lad of apparently eighteen or nineteen years, and two olive-skinned girls of about twelve and fourteen, children of the slain man, who hovered about the mother, and who, although they gave way now and then to passionate cries of grief, seemed chiefly bent on comforting her.
 
The son, indeed, mingled his words of consolation to his remaining parent with the promise that on the morrow she should herself see her husband’s murderer immolated beneath the clubs of their people, or burned at the glowing pile.
 
But in this he was doubtless influenced more by his education than by the promptings of his nature, for he was mild and placid in demeanor, and as yet no baleful look of hatred or revenge gleamed in his dark eyes.
 
Buffalo Bill and Captain Meinhold gathered some encouragement from these appearances, but they soon learned from Running Water that there was no ground for hope.
 
Even if the wife and children of the slain man should prove lenient, he had a brother and father, who would both be implacable, and indeed most of the small band could claim some affinity to the deceased, and had a right to insist on their revenge.
 
The council sat in the evening. It was short, and its decision was unanimous, not even Running Water raising his voice in behalf of the man who had so grossly wronged his people.
 
Hare was condemned to death, with the privilege of running the gantlet if he chose and taking the slight chance of escape which it offered him.
 
In other words, he was to be burned at the stake in the first place, or he was to run for his life between two files of men and women—composing all the tribe—armed with clubs, who were to stand facing each other, and were to strike at him as he went past.
 
No firearms or knives were to be used upon him, and if he passed unharmed through the files, he was to have his liberty; but if he were knocked down or disabled, he was to be taken at once to the stake and burned.
 
“How much chance of escape did this process offer?” Cody inquired of the chief, though he knew well how little it offered.
 
When made to comprehend the question, Running Water replied in substance that a strong, active warrior, who was accustomed to ruses and feints, who could dodge, and dive, and leap like a fox, and who could stand up under heavy blows, might possibly get through safely. There would be one chance in ten for him.
 
“But how would it be with the present prisoner?” the border king inquired, again. “What was his chance?”
 
“Much little,” replied the chief, smiling faintly; “’bout half of nothing at all. He no get past six squaws. He much too scare!”
 
Poor Hare had been tightly bound with bearskin thongs, and thrown down at the foot of a tree, where a single guard kept watch over him, but he had been provided with food, and his friends were permitted to communicate freely with him. From them he received the tidings of his doom.
 
He listened at first with some gleam of hope, but this soon vanished when he learned the full program of the scene to be enacted.
 
The women and large boys were to be placed first in the line—the oldest and least skillful of the men next, while the far end of this valley of death was to be composed of the best braves of the tribe, to whom it would be a lasting disgrace to allow the panting fugitive to get past them.
 
“I’ve a mind to refuse it,” said Hare, with a groan. “It’s only for their sport, as a cat plays with a mouse, which it is sure to destroy at last. But they may kill me with a blow, and that will be better than burning. No, I’ll run! At what time is it to be?”
 
“Soon after breakfast, and we are to have breakfast at sunrise,” Cody told him. “Try to get a good night’s sleep, and that will strengthen you for the task.”
 
“Yes, I shall probably sleep well and have pleasant dreams,” said the prisoner bitterly.
 
“You may. Such things have been. And then in the morning I will see that you have a good breakfast; and, if you wish, some brandy to give you courage, for I have some still left in my flask. Come, cheer up, and make an effort for your life!”
 
“Thank you, Cody. You would make a man hope under the descending guillotine, I believe. Well, I will try. But I cannot sleep yet. I want to write to my poor wife and father first. I have a pencil and some old letters which I can cross, and you, perhaps, can obtain for me the freedom of my right hand for an hour. At least, I know you will try.”
 
Buffalo Bill obtained this favor and others for the prisoner. His bands were all so far loosened that they might not give him pain, and he was removed into one of the huts for the night and was furnished with a bed of boughs.
 
Still, he was watched all night long, closely and ceaselessly, not by one man now, but by two, who stood motionless at the two ends of his couch.
 
His eyes closed at last, and, after long waiting, he sank into a troubled sleep, but he still saw the motionless sentries in dreams, and he woke many times ere morning to behold them, still and statuesque—but always facing each other, and always facing him.
 
But he could have done nothing toward escape if they had been less vigilant, for his ankles were bound together and his arms were pinioned to his sides.
 
Buffalo Bill’s sympathy f............