The General, as if impressed with the tense words, did not respond, and the other officers stared at the Colonel’s face, as carved, as stern as if done in marble—­a face from which the warm, strong heart seldom shone, held back always by the stronger will.

The big, fresh-colored young Captain broke the silence.  “Has the General ever heard of the trick Morgan played on Sun Boy, sir?” he asked.

“Tell the General, Captain Booth,” the Colonel said briefly, and the Captain turned toward the higher officer.

“It was apropos of what the Colonel said of his incentive faculties, General,” he began.  “A year ago the youngster with a squad of ten men walked into Sun Boy’s camp of seventy-five warriors.  Morgan had made quite a pet of a young Sioux, who was our prisoner for five months, and the boy had taught him a lot of the language, and assured him that he would have the friendship of the band in return for his kindness to Blue Arrow—­that was the chap’s name.  So he thought he was safe; but it turned out that Blue Arrow’s father, a chief, had got into a row with Sun Boy, and the latter would not think of ratifying the boy’s promise.  So there was Morgan with his dozen men, in a nasty enough fix.  He knew plenty of Indian talk to understand that they were discussing what they would do with him, and it wasn’t pleasant.

“All of a sudden he had an inspiration.  He tells the story himself, sir, and I assure you he’d make you laugh—­Morgan is a wonderful mimic.  Well, he remembered suddenly, as I said, that he was a mighty good ventriloquist, and he saw his chance.  He gave a great jump like a startled fawn, and threw up his arms and stared like one demented into the tree over their heads.  There was a mangy-looking crow sitting up there on a branch, and Morgan pointed at him as if at something marvellous, supernatural, and all those fool Indians stopped pow-wowing and stared up after him, as curious as monkeys.  Then to all appearances, the crow began to talk.  Morgan said they must have thought that spirits didn’t speak very choice Sioux, but he did his best.  The bird cawed out: 

“‘Oh, Sun Boy, great chief, beware what you do!’

“And then the real bird flapped its wings and Morgan thought it was going to fly, and he was lost.  But it settled back again on the branch, and Morgan proceeded to caw on: 

“’Hurt not the white man, or the curses of the gods will come upon Sun Boy and his people.’

“And he proceeded to give a list of what would happen if the Indians touched a hair of their heads.  By this time the red devils were all down on their stomachs, moaning softly whenever Morgan stopped cawing.  He said he quite got into the spirit of it, and would have liked to go on some time, but he was beginning to get hoarse, and besides he was; in deadly terror for fear the crow would fly before he got to the point.  So he had the spirit order them to give the white men their horses and turn them loose instanter; and just as he got all through, off went the thing with a big flap and a parting caw on its own account.  I wish I could tell it as Morgan does—­you’d think he was a bird and an Indian rolled together.  He’s a great actor spoiled, that lad.”