Chapter Twelve.
A Novel Mode of Punishment.
The sun was already past the meridian when the young Cheyenne chief, coming out from under the wagon tilt, once more showed himself to his captives. Since last seen by them there was a change in his costume. It was no more the scant breech-cloth worn in war; but a gala dress, such as is used by savages on the occasion of their grand ceremonies. His coat was the usual tunic-like shirt of the hunter, with fringed cape and skirt; but, instead of brown buckskin, it was made of scarlet cloth, and elaborately adorned by bead embroidery. Underneath were fringed leggings, ending in moccasins, worked with the porcupine quill. A Mexican scarf of crimson China crape was around his waist, with its tasselled ends hanging behind. On his head was a checkered Madras kerchief, tied turban fashion, its corners jauntily knotted on one side; while above the other rose a “panache” of bluish plumes, taken from the wings of the “gruya,” or New Mexican crane, their tips dyed scarlet.
Stuck behind his sash was a glittering bowie-knife, that might once have been the property of a Kansas regulator; and there were also pistols upon his person, concealed under the white wolf-skin robe that still hung toga-like from his shoulders. But for the emblematical painting on his face, freshly touched up, he might have appeared handsome. With this he was still picturesque, though terrible to look upon. His size—he was full six feet—gave him a commanding appearance; and his movements, easy and without agitation, told of a commanding mind. His followers seemed to acknowledge it; as, on the moment of emerging from the tent, even the most roysterous of them became quiet over their cups.
For some minutes he remained by the open end of the tent, without speaking to any one, or even showing sign that he saw any one around him. He seemed occupied with some mental plan, or problem; the solution of which he had stepped forth to seek.
It was in some way connected with the tiny waterfall, that fell like a spout from the cliff; for his eyes were upon it.
After gazing at it for some time, they turned suddenly up to the sun; and as if seeing in it something to stimulate him, his attitude became changed. All at once he appeared to arouse himself from a lethargy, like one who has discovered the necessity for speedily entering upon action.
“Waboga!” he called, addressing himself to the Choctaw.
The traitor was not one of the intoxicated, and soon stood before him.
“Take some of the young men. Cut down a tree—one of the pinons yonder. Lop off the branches, and bring it here.”