Riding closely behind their guide, who led the way in and around the numerous teepees, the lads finally reached the center of the village.
“It’s a mighty good thing Indians are tame nowadays,” remarked Larry to Dave Brandon, the nearest to him. “I can kind o’ imagine how prisoners must have felt when——”
“My grandfather, Wandering Bear,” came in the clear, musical voice of Thunderbolt.
Before the largest and most imposing teepee the ancient chief, a striking figure in the full glare of sunlight, stood waiting to receive them. Wandering Bear, though the oldest Indian in the lodge, held his herculean proportions as erect as ever.
The chief’s long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, while myriads of wrinkles seamed his bronze-colored face. A head-dress of gaudily-colored feathers and various ornaments served to add to the stern dignity of his presence.
Never before in the history of the Cree lodge had the Indians received a visit from a party of boys. But Chief Wandering Bear, like his tribesmen, did not seem in the least surprised. Imperturbably, he continued smoking a long-stemmed sandstone pipe, listened with attention to Thunderbolt’s explanations, then inclined his head, saying in grave tones: “Howdy!”
“Most delighted to meet you, Mr. Wandering Bear, I’m sure!” exclaimed Larry.
The others responded to his salutation heartily, though in a more serious fashion, and promptly accepted Thunderbolt’s invitation to dismount. The horses were then given in charge of several young Indians, who led them into the pasture-land by the hills.
The chief shook each of his visitors by the hand.
“Yes, I speak the tongue of the white man,” he said, in answer to a question from Bob Somers. “Not many year from now the Indian tongue shall have passed away. This year, so many less braves; next year, so many less.” He shook his head sadly. “The white man always bigger—stronger. But soon the Indian he see no more.”