Right in the center of an Indian camp I rode up to a poor helpless old squaw. ... She laid on a few ragged robes, and suddenly closed her eyes as if expecting a bullet but not wanting to see it come. She seemed rather disappointed when instead of shooting her I refilled her water-bottle. She made signs that she had been forsaken by her people, and wanted to die, and from a couple of shots heard ten minutes later as I followed the trail down the creek, one of our wild Bannack scouts acceded to her wishes and put her out of her misery.
John W. Redington scout