Montero Had Not Been Long Encamped Among Them, When He Discovered
That The Blackfeet Were Hovering About The Neighborhood.
One day
the hunters came galloping into the camp, and proclaimed that a
band of the enemy was at hand.
The Crows flew to arms, leaped on
their horses, and dashed out in squadrons in pursuit. They
overtook the retreating enemy in the midst of a plain. A
desperate fight ensued. The Crows had the advantage of numbers,
and of fighting on horseback. The greater part of the Blackfeet
were slain; the remnant took shelter in a close thicket of
willows, where the horse could not enter; whence they plied their
bows vigorously.
The Crows drew off out of bow-shot, and endeavored, by taunts and
bravadoes, to draw the warriors Out of their retreat. A few of
the best mounted among them rode apart from the rest. One of
their number then advanced alone, with that martial air and
equestrian grace for which the tribe is noted. When within an
arrow's flight of the thicket, he loosened his rein, urged his
horse to full speed, threw his body on the opposite side, so as
to hang by one leg, and present no mark to the foe; in this way
he swept along in front of the thicket, launching his arrows from
under the neck of his steed. Then regaining his seat in the
saddle, he wheeled round and returned whooping and scoffing to
his companions, who received him with yells of applause.
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