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.  That morning Bordeaux fastened upon him, made him presents and told him that if he went to war he would destroy his horses and kill no buffalo to trade with the white men; in short, that he was a fool to think of such a thing, and had better make up his mind to sit quietly in his lodge and smoke his pipe, like a wise man.  The Whirlwind’s purpose was evidently shaken; he had become tired, like a child, of his favorite plan.  Bordeaux exultingly predicted that he would not go to war.  My philanthropy at that time was no match for my curiosity, and I was vexed at the possibility that after all I might lose the rare opportunity of seeing the formidable ceremonies of war.  The Whirlwind, however, had merely thrown the firebrand; the conflagration was become general.  All the western bands of the Dakota were bent on war; and as I heard from McCluskey, six large villages already gathered on a little stream, forty miles distant, were daily calling to the Great Spirit to aid them in their enterprise.  McCluskey had just left and represented them as on their way to La Bonte’s Camp, which they would reach in a week, unless they should learn that there were no buffalo there.  I did not like this condition, for buffalo this season were rare in the neighborhood.  There were also the two Minnicongew villages that I mentioned before; but about noon, an Indian came from Richard’s Fort with the news that they were quarreling, breaking up, and dispersing.  So much for the whisky of the emigrants!  Finding themselves unable to drink the whole, they had sold the residue to these Indians, and it needed no prophet to foretell the results; a spark dropped into a powder magazine would not have produced a quicker effect.  Instantly the old jealousies and rivalries and smothered feuds that exist in an Indian village broke out into furious quarrels.