He swung his hatchet so
fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet crowded back and
gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the
breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish
yells the remainder of the Crow warriors came dropping in quick
succession over the rock, and rallied around him.
The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for a few
moments the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the
butchery was complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled together under
the precipice. Not a Blackfoot made his escape.
In 1833 a band of Blackfeet, superior in numbers to the Crows, most
unmercifully whipped them. On their return to their village one night
in August, shortly after the fight, there was a grand display of
meteoric showers, and although the Crow warriors were ready to face
death in any form, the wonderful celestial display appalled them.
They regarded it as the wrath of the Great Spirit showered visibly
upon them. In their terrible fright, they, of course, looked to their
chief for some explanation of it. But as Beckwourth himself was as
much struck with the wonderful occurrence, he was equally at a loss
with his untutored followers to account for the remarkable spectacle.
Evidently, he knew, he must augur some result from it, though his own
dejected spirit did not prompt him to deduce a very encouraging one.
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