Now, Minie, like the Harpagon of his countryman, has "changed all
that." The retreating heathen flies to his hills in vain. They do not
cover him, but the rifle does. Cantering to the summit of a knoll,
he waves his compliments to the distant dragoon with a gesture of
derision, more expressive than elegant, he has acquired from the
white. Turning calmly to depart, as he sinks below the crest of the
hill a sagittiform bullet, fired at five hundred yards' distance with
all the science and talent purchasable with thirteen dollars a month
and rations, plumps into the rump of his unhappy pony, and the Stoic
of the woods is unhorsed. Reared on horseback, and weak in the legs
from long addiction to that mode of locomotion, this is a _casus
omissus_ in Lo's tactics. Scant time, however, has he for reflection.
He gathers up himself and his drapery as well as circumstances will
allow, and scuttles hurriedly off, a fluttering chaos of rags and
feathers. It is too late. Heaven is on the side of the best artillery.
A few minutes and the Philistines are upon him. Burnside's or
Remington's last patent again lifts up its voice, and the triumph of
civilization is complete.
The prairie Indian, unlike his congener of the woods, has as yet been
but partially able to substitute gunpowder for the bow. The advantage
he has in the protection afforded him by the desolation of his
waterless _mesas_ and sage-covered hills is thus in great measure
neutralized.
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