THE south wind's up at the break of dawn

From the dun Missouri's breast,

It has tossed the grass of the Council Hill

And wakened the flames on its crest;

The flames of the sentry fires bright,

Ablaze on the prairies pale,

Where sixty men of the Frontier Corps

Are guarding the Government Trail.

A rattle of hoofs from the northern hills,

A steed with a sweat-wrung hide

And Olaf Draim, of the Peska Claim,

Swings off at the captain's side.

A limb of the sturdy Swedes is he,

Marauders in days of old,

But the swart of his face is stricken white

And the grip of his hand is cold.

"Now, hark ye, men of the Frontier Corps,

I ride from the Beaver Creek,

Where I saw a sight at the grim midnight

That might turn a strong man weak.

"Chief Black Bear's out from the Crow Creek lands,

The buzzards his track have showed;

Last eve he pillaged at Old Fort James,

To-day on the Firesteel road,

"And Corporal Stowe, of the Frontier Corps,

On furlough to reap his grain,

At the Peska stage-house lieth dead

With his wife and his children twain."

Then up and spoke First Sergeant Ross,

Who had bunked with Corporal Stowe:

"By the glory of God, they shall pay in blood

The debt of that dastard blow!

"Ye know the path to the Crow Creek lands;

It is sown with this spawn of hell,

And there's deep ravine and there's plum-hedge green

To shelter a foeman well.

"Now, who of my comrades mounts with me

For a murdered mess-mate's wrong,

That the Sioux who rides with those scalps at his side

May swing from a hempen thong?"

Of three-score men there were only ten

Would gird for that chase of death.

Quoth Ross: "As ye please. For the cur, his fleas,

But men for the rifle's breath."

They have tightened cinches and passed the lines

Ere the lowland mists have flown;

The men are astride of the squadron's best,

And Ross, of the Captain's roan.

They ride till the crickets have sought the shade;

They ride till the sun-motes glance;

And they have espied on a far hillside

The whirl of the Sioux scalp-dance.

Then it's up past the smouldering stage-house barn

And out by the well-curb's marge;

The Sioux are a-leap for the tether-ropes:—

"Revolvers! Guide centre! Charge!"

The Sioux, they flee like a wild wolf-pack

At the flick of the shot-tossed sod,

Six braves have lurched to the fore fetlocks

And two of the Sergeant's squad.

But Ross has tightened his sabre-belt

And given the roan his head,

And set his pace for a single chase,

A furlong's length ahead.

He has set his pace for the chief, Black Bear,

Who shrinks from a strong man's strife

But flaunts in the air the long, brown hair

Of the scalp of the Corporal's wife.

The eight, they follow like swirled snow-spume,

A-drive o'er an ice-bound bar,

But the redskin's track is the dim cloud-wrack

That streams in the sky afar.

They ride till the hearts of their steeds are dead

And they gallop with lolling tongues,

And the tramp of their feet is a rhythmic beat

To the sob of their panting lungs.

And two are down in a prairie draw

And three on a chalk-stone ledge.

And three have won to the Bon Homme Run

And stuck in the marsh-land sedge.

But Black Bear's horse still holds the course,

Though her breath is a thick-drawn moan,

And a length behind is the straining stride

Of the Captain's steel-limbed roan.

The Sergeant rides with a loose-thrown rein,

Nor sabre nor shoot will he

Till the pony has pitched at a gopher mound

And flung her rider free;

And Ross has wrenched the knife from his hand

And smitten him to the ground;—

"Did ye think to win to the Bijou Hills,

Ye whelp of a Blackfoot hound?

"I had riddled your carcass this six miles back

And left ye to rot on the plain,

Had the blood of the slaughtered not called on me

That I hail ye to Peska again,

"To point this lesson to all your tribe.

That the price of a white man's soul

No longer goes, in the mart of death,

Unpaid to its last dark goal.

"Wherefore, that your tribesmen may see and feel

The cost of a white man's wrong,

And to sweeten the rest of my mess-mate's kin,

Ye shall swing from a hempen thong."

He has slung the chief to the saddle-bow,

Triced up in his own raw-hide,

And has borne him back to the stage-house yard,

All bleak on the green hillside.

And they swung him at dawn from a scaffold stout,

As a warning to all his kind,

To fatten the birds and to scare the herds

And to sport with the prairie wind.

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