And the gaunt old Indian Cattle Thief dropped
  dead on the open plain.
And that band of cursing settlers gave one
  triumphant yell,
And rushed like a pack of demons on the body that
  writhed and fell.
"Cut the fiend up into inches, throw his carcass
  on the plain;
Let the wolves eat the cursed Indian, he'd have
  treated us the same."
A dozen hands responded, a dozen knives gleamed
  high,
But the first stroke was arrested by a woman's
  strange, wild cry.
And out into the open, with a courage past
  belief,
She dashed, and spread her blanket o'er the corpse
  of the Cattle Thief;
And the words outleapt from her shrunken lips in
  the language of the Cree,
"If you mean to touch that body, you must cut
  your way through me."
And that band of cursing settlers dropped
  backward one by one,
For they knew that an Indian woman roused, was
  a woman to let alone.
And then she raved in a frenzy that they scarcely
  understood,
Raved of the wrongs she had suffered since her
  earliest babyhood:
"Stand back, stand back, you white-skins, touch
  that dead man to your shame;