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Then the killing was
magnificent. Each act (we forget how many
acts there were) closed with a grand
scrimmage in which pistols and tomahawks,
scalping knives and blue fire,
redskins and white hunters flew
around promiscuously; Buffalo Bill
and Texas Jack, with revolvers in
both hands, each blazed away like a
whole platoon of light infantry, until
they resembled gigantic Catherine
wheels a dark spot in the centre and
a brilliant circle of fire outside; and
when the smoke would clear away the
spectators would discover that all the
noble red men had been snuffed out,
and only the good-looking white
hunters remained.

As to the "Pawnee chiefs," they
hardly came up to our ideal of the red
man-but we acknowledge that we are
acquainted with the noble savage
principally through Cooper's novels and
an occasional meeting with one of the
strolling basket sellers of the Oldtown
tribe. The Pawnees may be the genuine
article, for aught, we know; they
looked homely enough, made hideous
noises enough, and some of them spoke
bad English enough; but they were as
totally unlike our big Injun a la Cooper
as the stage sailor is unlike the chap
who really goes down to the sea in
ships. Altogether, this "sensational
drama" amused us more than any play
we ever saw, and we dare not hope we
shall ever look upon its like again.