The Rough Riders of all nations and costumes; the wonderful rifle-shooting of the short-skirted, sombreroed cow-girl, the hair-raising hold-up of the ancient stage-coach—each and all yielded a separate thrill; but of course the best of all were the Indians—real, painted, plumed, ferocious warriors and daring horsemen of the plains! Everybody drew a long breath when they galloped into the arena.
“Doesn’t it make you think of home?” whispered Cynthia to Stella, with characteristic frankness speaking out what the others had only thought.
“Well, you see,” objected Yellow Star, “our men all dress like farmers now, and ’most all wear their hair short. I never saw anything like this before—except once on a Fourth of July, when some white people paid our Indians to dress up and give a war-dance.”
“But—but they used to dress this way?” faltered Sin, rather taken aback, while the rest pricked up their ears.
“Well, not when they went to war, anyway. They wouldn’t want to be bothered with all those fixings if they really had to ride far, or fight, or anything like that. I think, myself, they only dressed up at councils and dances, and maybe not quite so much, even then,” (with just a flicker of a smile.) “I know one thing: lots of those beaded things are not Sioux.”
“Not Sioux, my dear! Why, what do you mean?” wondered Mrs. Brown.
“You see, Mrs. Brown,” explained Stella, “most of these very men are Sioux from our agency. I used to hear Father Waring and the agent talking about the show people. There are men at home, and a few women, that have been all over this country and in England and France and Germany. One of them brought home a German wife who didn’t know a word of our language, and he couldn’t speak German, either!
“Now, here they are, dressed up in all the beaded things they could make or beg or borrow from some other tribe—not Sioux at all! To us, that looks as if you wore a fireman’s boots and trousers and a priest’s cassock and a soldier’s hat,” she suggested, with another little quirk at the corners of the serious mouth, but subsided when she observed that several people beside their own party were listening with evident interest.
After the performance, four or five of the Indians passed out among the audience, and as they approached the Laurel party, Yellow Star gazed earnestly into their painted faces. She recognized several, but hesitated to speak to these men, whom, as a modest young girl of her people, she would not have thought of addressing at home, much as she longed to hear again the dear accents of her mother tongue.
At last, however, there came a woman with a child on her back, in its gorgeously beaded cradle, attracting the lion’s share of interest and attention. Many gave the mother a bit of silver in return for the privilege of a peep at its tiny face, or for one of the highly colored photographs she offered. When she actually held one out to Yellow Star among the rest, the girl couldn’t help murmuring, in the soft syllables of their native Dakota: