Before The Village
Left Its Camping Ground, I Set Forward In Company With The Eagle-
Feather, A Man Of Powerful Frame, But Of Bad And Sinister Face.
His
son, a light-limbed boy, rode with us, and another Indian, named the
Panther, was also of the party.
Leaving the village out of sight
behind us, we rode together up a rocky defile. After a while,
however, the Eagle-Feather discovered in the distance some appearance
of game, and set off with his son in pursuit of it, while I went
forward with the Panther. This was a mere NOM DE GUERRE; for, like
many Indians, he concealed his real name out of some superstitious
notion. He was a very noble looking fellow. As he suffered his
ornamented buffalo robe to fall into folds about his loins, his
stately and graceful figure was fully displayed; and while he sat his
horse in an easy attitude, the long feathers of the prairie cock
fluttering from the crown of his head, he seemed the very model of a
wild prairie-rider. He had not the same features as those of other
Indians. Unless his handsome face greatly belied him, he was free
from the jealousy, suspicion, and malignant cunning of his people.
For the most part, a civilized white man can discover but very few
points of sympathy between his own nature and that of an Indian.
With every disposition to do justice to their good qualities, he must
be conscious that an impassable gulf lies between him and his red
brethren of the prairie.
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