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on a western reservation. Within the park a hundred Brules, in paint and feathers, were riding like demons and yelling shrilly as the pace of their ponies grew faster. But the old man on crutches, who stood alone at the gate, gave no outward sign that he was pleased or interested. He clutched a blue blanket at his breast and shook his massive head from time to time as the snow settled too thickly about his ears.

The cripple was Rain-in-the-Face, who seventeen years ago was notorious for his bloody work on the Little Big Horn, when General Custer and his gallant troopers of the Seventh fell and were scalped almost to a man. Sitting Bull, whom General Miles has called the "Red Napoleon," has been credited with having directed the movements of the Sioux on that savage day. This statement has been confirmed and denied by writers and Indians, but there has never been any doubt that Sitting Bull took an active part in the battle, even if he did not assume absolute command of the warriors. Nobody has successfully disputed the melancholy achievement of Rain-in-the-Face during the last hours of Custer's command. The savage was then a youngster, with all the characteristic cruelty of his race. He bore himself with reckless bravery during the fighting, and when the troopers were all but gone he burst upon them like a demon and fired the shot that stretched Captain Tom Custer at the feet of his father.

Scout Curley Will Be Here.

Scout Curley, a half-breed Crow, who was the only man of Custer's command to escape with his life, and who is to come to Chicago next week, saw Rain-in-the-Face in this last charge. There was but a handful of the Seventh left when Captain Custer fell, but that handful, standing close to the intrepid general, came mighty near squaring accounts before they, too, tumbled dead or wounded among the bodies of their comrades. A bullet from a carbine struck Rain-in-the-Face in the left knee, shattering the bone and hurling him out of his saddle. He fell almost squarely upon the body of Captain Custer but was quickly rescued by his people and borne away. That is why Rain-in-the-Face was walking on crutches yesterday. He will never walk again without them.

Whatever may be said about the spectacular careers of the rest of the Sioux since the wars of 1876 and of 1891, Rain-in-the-Face cannot be charged with having sought notoriety. Until the Wisconsin Central train hauled him out of St. Paul on Friday night he had never been east of the Mississippi River. The biggest town he had seen up to that day was Mandan, in North Dakota; and Mandan, as many people know, is not much larger than Freeze Out or Red Top, in Montana.

When Sitting Bull hoisted the white flag on the British line Rain-in-the-Face, along with such brainy chieftains as Gall and Grass, accepted the inevitable with commendable grace and has since lived in a quiet way at the Standing Rock agency.

Rain-in-the-Face Stabbed by His Squaw.

Just before the ghost-dancing outbreak of 1891 the old warrior was stabbed by his squaw while he lay asleep in his tepee. The woman, who no doubt had some great grievance, stole into the lodge late at night and plunged a skinning-knife into the breast of the Indian. For weeks and weeks it was thought that the thrust would accomplish what the bullet on the Little Big Horn had failed to do, but the old warrior's vitality had not left him and he recovered in time to take a lively interest in Sitting Bull's attemp to start a stampede at Standing Rock. Old Bull, hovever, was still too much of a firebrand to win favor from Rain-in-the-Face, who was quite willing to remain in his lodge with his shattered knee and knife-slashed breast. Bull went to war or was forced into war, as two stories run, and when the firing was over in the first scrimmage the doughty old chieftain and his sons lay dead in the sage brush along Grand river. But Bull and his band didn't die without making a strong fight against the Indian police who had been sent to arrest them. Shave Head, a full brother of Rain-in-the-Face, and a sergeant of police, was killed almost at the first fire, and nearly a dozen more of his companions fell out of their saddles with mortal wounds during the last stand of old Bull on this earth.

Big Send-Off for the Old Chief.

Rain-in-the-Face left Mandan, N.D., on Thursday. He was accompanied by a son of Major McLaughlin, the famous agent at Standing Rock. Before the men left the agency the Sioux gave Rain-in-the-Face a big send off. A steer was slaughtered in sight of the agency buildings, and gathered about the roasting steaks and sputtering fat, the warriors made merry until it was time for the buckboard to start for the train.

Rain-in-the-Face is wonderfully impressed with what he has seen. St. Paul upset the old man's nerves, but the roar of Chicago's streets upset him completely.

"Heap thunder," he said to his companion, and then he would crouch upon his crutches as though in momentary fear of being hit by something. The big domes of the fair and the mighty roof of manufactures building filled the old fellow with awe. He said he would visit them when "his eyes were rested and he did not see so big."

WITH HIS SAVAGE EYES

RAIN-IN-THE-FACE, THE SLAYER OF OUSTER, SEES THE WORLD'S FAIR.

He Rolls Cigarettes in a Tepee Near the Log Cabin in Front of Which Sitting Bull Was Killed and Revives Old Times with Buffalo Bill - Then He Hears the Roll Call of the Savages Who Compose the Band of Regenerate Hair Raisers and Who Answer with a "Ugh."

Over in a corner of Buffalo Bill's bit arena in Sixty-third street stood yesterday a stout man of swarthy complexion and long hair falling in rat tails over his coat collar. He wore a tight-fitting blue suit and a negligee shirt. He leaned sadly on a pair of roughly made crutches and looked wistfully at the Indians in their war paint as they whirled gleefully around the space. It was hard to picture this obese, upoetical figure as the blood-thirst chief of war paint and feathers. But so he was. Rain-in-th-Face is farther east than ever before in his checkered career. He reached Chicago at 10 o'clock yesterday morning in the company of Harry McLaughlin, son of Maj. James McLaughlin, who has charge of the reservation at Standing Rock, N.D.

The whirligig of time has brought its revenges for the old chief. Faded memories were quickened into life at the sight of the braves. There were men among them who parted from Rain-in-the-Face in all his glory at Little Big Horn, to meet him again maimed and quelled, a chattel at an exhibition, There is not a Sioux in the crowd but looks upon him as the great chief who overcame Custer. Many credit the general's death blow to his hand. Those were the days when the name of Itelogoju was one to conjure with in all the nations of the Sioux. Rain-in-the-Face, as his name has been traslated, now wears blue suits instead of a blanket. Peace has come to him in his middle age. He bears on his body a substantial record of his youth, for a bullet wound received in the Custer fight has lamed him for life.

He declared yesterday that the injury had been received from a gunshot wound while out hunting. His interpreter, Harry McLaughlin, winked at the announcement. Itelogoju's contempt for the pale-face is too pronounced to allow of his admitting that by 20 in width, and is built of rough logs, with a roofing of straw thatch. It will contain a museam of relics, embalming the memory of the dead chief. Sitting Bull's guns and the guns that killed Sitting Bull are wrapped amicably together in one package. The "ghost pole," around which the crazed Indians danced, will be on view, as well as the garments of the chief himself. His "sweat box" will also be a feature in the display, as the means which gained for him a large proportion of his influence. It is a collection of closely woven wattles wherein the chief was wont to sweat braves into weakness. THeir subsequent collapse into unconsciousness was accomplished by twirling a rod rapidly around their heads, thereby producing giddiness. Once comatose, Sitting Bull knew how to deal with them.

While Itelogoju was rolling cigarettes in the tepee Col. Cody was mustering his braves outside. He stood in the center of a ring of hideously painted Indians and called their names from a type-written list. Beside him stood an interpreter to translate the names into their proper tongue, for even Col. Cody halts at cetain of the patronymics of his followers.

"Charge-on-His-Horse," he would cry, and the interpreter would interpolate three gurgles and a cough, meeting with the response "Ugh" from some one in the fantastic crowd.

When other methods failed an appeal was made to a Sioux "crier," who explained matters in voluble gutterals. Finally the list was concluded with "Hollow-Back" and "Follow-the-Squaw" and the dusky savages marched to the arena.

RAIN-IN-THE-FACE AND HIS AUTOGRAPH.

such a weakling's bullet could maim such a great chief. Buffalo Bill called on his friend, the enemy, in the tepee where the latter is quartered. There were a hundred old-time reminiscences to be revived, for Col. Cody met Rain-in-the-Face when he was Itelogoju, years ago.

Col. Cody invited the chief to come over to the arena, and his stolid, flat face brightened momentarily at the prospect of seeing war paint once again. He sat placidly on a mattress rolling a cigarette from a green paper package of tabacco that smacked more of Madison street than of the boundless prairie. Since he left Standing Rock agency Thursday night he has seen more than ever entered his dreams. Beyond an occasional visit to Bismarck and Mandan he knows

DOOR AT WHICH SITTING BULL WAS KILLED.

nothing of brick and mortar, and Chicago is a revelation to him. He was awe struck, like some white folks, at the world's fair buildings, but beyond all he wanted to know how people climbed up to build those tall towers. His 46 years of life have been spent in cabins on the Grand river or tepees in the far northwest. He gazed wonderingly at the towering masses, and thought the pale-face medicine man must play a strong game.

The chief will be in Buffal Bill's inclosure throughout the summer, but not of it. in a corner of the space is a rude, half-thatched log cabin with a portentous history. Bullet holes in the door and floor tell their tale for themselves. Six feet in front of the doorway Sitting Bull died. Four feet inside the door bullet marks show the spot where his son Crowfoot met his death. Sitting Bull's cabin has been shipped, in its native integrity, from its site on the banks of the Grand river. To convey it to Chicago it was necessary to carry the timbers 110 miles by wagon over mud roads. The cabin comprises one single room, 36 feet in length

WILD WEST SHOW.

"Buffalo Bill's" Rough Riders Now in Camp.

Rich in the plaudits of another continent Col. W. F. Cody and his Indians have returned to the land of their nativity and are making grand preparations for an all-summer engagement at the World's Fair. Never before has the old world had such an innovation. Peasant and potentate sat side by side at the Wild West show and trhilled with the realistic scenes of the plains. The show in coming to this country has been greatly enriched by the addition of many new and novel features. Besides the original company of Indians, cowboys and plainsmen. a band of Mexican vacqueros. South American ganchos and mounted battalions from six nations have joined thme. Buffalo Bill's arena, whre the performances will take place, embraces an area of nearly eighty acres of ground, and 18,000 people can witness the display at once. The grounds are at Sixty-third street, near Jackson park. It certainly deserves recognition as a great exhibit for it presents a version of primeval life which the great west of to-day can not duplicate.