His challenge was not accepted, mainly on account of the hot and tired ponies, which, as though anxious to remain under the cooling shadows, picked their way but slowly down the incline.
The nearer they approached the village the greater became the curiosity and interest in the picturesque scene before them. The wide basin was becoming filled with tribesmen; thin, bluish columns of smoke from various fires ascended almost vertically in the air, while further afield, cropping the grass, sheltered from the blazing sun by the hills, were Indian ponies tethered in a long line.
“The real thing beats a moving picture show all hollow,” exclaimed Tom Clifton, his face glowing with pleasurable anticipation. “Gee! That redcoat is coming nearer. He’s on foot, too.”
“I wonder what a member of the Northwest Mounted is doing in this Indian lodge?” drawled Dave.
“Perhaps he will be kind enough to explain,” grinned Sam Randall.
“And if his reasons aren’t mighty good Tom’ll most likely jump on him hard,” remarked Larry. “Say, fellows, what wouldn’t I give for a nice, large ice-cream soda!”
Tom laughed uproariously.
“Now I know what’s the matter with you, Larry,” he cried. “If we could only find a confectionery shop at every corner I reckon that glum expression would flit away from your face.”
As the last stretch was almost level the horses took it at a good pace; and, somehow, the boys could not resist sending off on the air a series of wild whoops, which, in volume of sound, might have rivaled those of the Crees when they fought against their old-time enemies.
At the base of the hill they were so quickly surrounded that Larry Burnham began to feel a trifle apprehensive lest such an unceremonious entrance into the village had offended these descendants of a warlike race.