bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians become expert bowmen. There were urchins there, scarce two feet high, with round, bullets of bodies and short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off the trees at every shot, and cut the heads of the taller flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need, too, for the utmost proficiency for the existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends on their success in hunting the buffalo.
There are hundreds and thousands of North American savages who would undoubtedly perish, and their tribes become extinct, if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential to their existence, they pursue and slay them with improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues and the marrow bones. In the bloody hunt described in the last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the blackbirds shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men, who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling in superabundance.
But to return to our story. At one end of this village the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom of which was studded with small islands. Here were thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl, which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared by the noise. And here, too, dozens of children were sporting on the beach, or paddling about in their light bark canoes.
“Isn’t it strange,” remarked Dick to Henri, as they passed among the tents towards the centre of the village—“isn’t it strange that them Injuns should be so fond o’ fightin’, when they’ve got all they can want—a fine country, lots o’ buffalo, an’ happy homes?”
“Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. Bot dey do more love war to peace. Dey loves to be excit-ed, I s’pose.”
“Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that must be the chief’s tent, by the look o’t.”
Dick was right. The horsemen pulled up and dismounted opposite the principal chief’s tent, which was
