The Daily Union

Editorial Correspondence.
Traverse des Sioux,
Monday, July 14, 1851.

It is now fourteen days since we landed here; and all the time since we have been awaiting the arrival of the red republicans to treat; although, in truth, we have been treating ever since we came, while the Sioux bands that are here, like old bar-room topers, have never talked treat to us once. They are very docile under the new dispensation—the reign of beef. They seem to say "it is meat for them to behave." But for us to remain here another week, waiting for those distant bands, will be, as old John, our French cook, would say, "meat not much, and no bon;" but, like a surgeon who has made up his mind on amputation, our commission sits patiently down, tourniquet, knife, and saw in hand, preparing, when the patient comes, "to do the deed, if it were done, quickly."

Our commissary and ordinary is the old house occupied in the Doty treaty, and ordinary enough it is. Several young men of our camp started off in the morning across the river to see Cedar Lake, a handsome sheet, in the midst of a dark forest, distant, it is said, about five, or six, or seven, or it may be eight miles, or perhaps leagues, from the Traverse. They returned without seeing Cedar Lake, not knowing where to look for it, but thinking, nevertheless, that they could come so near it that the artist in their company, who draws everything, from the cork of a porter bottle to a queer conclusion, would be able to draw it; but he did not.

Towards evening the Indians from the plains, who are encamped back of the Traverse, fitted themselves up in their cavalry suits, and with limbs of bushes, covered with rustling leaves, mounted their horses, and came riding down amongst the lodges of the other bands, sweeping along like a whirlwind, to represent a foray of Comanche Indians. They were received at each encampment with a volley of blank cartridges, wheeling swiftly from one encampment to another, and finally sweeping down by the front of the commissioners' marquee, singing a wild war-song "that hath in it," as Hennepin said of the Falls of St. Anthony, "something terrible"—a sort of running disquisition on scalps. There are several cases of sickness amongst the Indians, many of whom lie gorged with beef like anacondas. Dr. Foster does everything he can for them, (at least without a resort to the root practice;) but, as a general thing, they seem to have more confidence in the practice of their own physicians.

To-morrow morning two cart-loads of corn will be sent up the river to meet the remote bands on their way down, who are represented to be, as usual, "in a starving condition."

A Sisseton Indian has arrived, who says that five days ago a party of six Sisseton Sioux, including two of his own children, were attacked 40 miles above Lac-qui-Parle by a band of 20 Chippewas, (or possibly Winnebagoes,) who killed and scalped all but one of their number—a boy who escaped by running. The boy ran 30 miles without stopping. Two other Sioux returned with the boy to the place of slaughter, where they found the five mangled and beheaded. They laid their remains in a pile and covered them with a blanket, where they remained until the remainder of the Sisseton band came down, on their way to the treaty, who found and buried the dead. This butchery occurred just after sunrise.