I could see them
crossing the river, and passing in quick succession along the profile
of the hill on the farther bank.
When all were gone, I mounted and
set out after them, followed by Raymond, and as we gained the summit,
the whole village came in view at once, straggling away for a mile or
more over the barren plains before us. Everywhere the iron points of
lances were glittering. The sun never shone upon a more strange
array. Here were the heavy-laden pack horses, some wretched old
women leading them, and two or three children clinging to their
backs. Here were mules or ponies covered from head to tail with
gaudy trappings, and mounted by some gay young squaw, grinning
bashfulness and pleasure as the Meneaska looked at her. Boys with
miniature bows and arrows were wandering over the plains, little
naked children were running along on foot, and numberless dogs were
scampering among the feet of the horses. The young braves, gaudy
with paint and feathers, were riding in groups among the crowd, and
often galloping, two or three at once along the line, to try the
speed of their horses. Here and there you might see a rank of sturdy
pedestrians stalking along in their white buffalo robes. These were
the dignitaries of the village, the old men and warriors, to whose
age and experience that wandering democracy yielded a silent
deference. With the rough prairie and the broken hills for its
background, the restless scene was striking and picturesque beyond
description.
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