Perrault stood showering approbrious epithets at the recent
bourgeois. Growing tired of this, he made up a pack of dried meat,
and slinging it at his back, set out alone for Fort Pierre on the
Missouri, a distance of three hundred miles, over a desert country
full of hostile Indians.
I remained in the fort that night. In the morning, as I was coming
out from breakfast, conversing with a trader named McCluskey, I saw a
strange Indian leaning against the side of the gate. He was a tall,
strong man, with heavy features.
"Who is he?" I asked. "That's The Whirlwind," said McCluskey. "He
is the fellow that made all this stir about the war. It's always the
way with the Sioux; they never stop cutting each other's throats;
it's all they are fit for; instead of sitting in their lodges, and
getting robes to trade with us in the winter. If this war goes on,
we'll make a poor trade of it next season, I reckon."
And this was the opinion of all the traders, who were vehemently
opposed to the war, from the serious injury that it must occasion to
their interests. The Whirlwind left his village the day before to
make a visit to the fort. His warlike ardor had abated not a little
since he first conceived the design of avenging his son's death. The
long and complicated preparations for the expedition were too much
for his fickle, inconstant disposition.
