"There's no doubt but that we are prisoners," remarked Arnold, as he sat down upon a buffalo hide, preparing to make the best of things and take his ease while he might.
"The whole affair is a puzzle," said his companion. "Why on earth they should take us prisoners passes my comprehension. It can't be that they regard us as enemies. They would not have been so polite and considerate if that had been their thought."
"That's just it," laughed Arnold, who, like his son, had the gift for worrying little until he knew exactly what to worry about. "That's just what surprises me. We are treated as prisoners, and not as prisoners. My impression is that we are regarded with more fear than anger."
The time allowed for speculation was soon curtailed by the sound of many voices approaching the tent, though presently there was silence, and a loud voice called to those within—
"The eyes of Mighty Hand would gladly rest on the sight of the White Men."
"He means us," commented Arnold, rising from the couch of fur. "He's too polite to enter the teepee uninvited."
"By all means let his eyes rest upon us," laughed Holden.
The two men then advanced, while one threw open the flap of the tent. And the picture that met their eyes was one that struck the strangers with admiration, for it seemed to throw the years back to the days when the Indian ruled the prairie—the days that knew the youth of Ballantyne and the prime of Fenimore Cooper.
Ranged in a semicircle before the tent was a crowd of braves and warriors—all arrayed in the picturesque garb that was unspoilt by any touch of Saxon attire, such as is commonly seen among redskins of the present day. Except that the old-time bows and arrows were replaced by more modern muzzle-loaders, there was nothing to suggest any association with white men and white men's tastes.
But it was not so much the background of natives that impressed the Englishmen. Their admiration was called to the central figure. He was an Indian of enormous size—tall, squarely built, and equally proportioned. His head was surmounted with a turban of black fox decorated with eagle feathers that were continued like a wing right down his back and nearly touched the ground. His black hair was threaded with many coloured beads, some of which resembled (and actually were proved to be) nuggets of pure gold. Necklaces of beads and animals' teeth hung in many strands upon the breast of his deerskin shirt. Leggings and moccasins were a mass of beads, feathers, and porcupines' quills woven in intricately fantastic designs. And, over all, there hung in graceful folds an ermine robe of spotless white.