catch the sound of our distant strains. The five horsemen disappeared as if by magic, and reappeared driving a large drove of horses before them of all colours. The horsemen again pause on the summit. "Hark! listen! they sing again! Who can they be?"
Not a soul yet stirred from the village. We drove our horses down toward them, and left them there, while we took a circuit around, displaying our scalps, but still keeping over gunshot distance. The old men came out to us, carrying drums; each of us took one, and then we bounded away to the rear of our horses. We raised a well-known song, and all listened to the tones of the returning Medicine Calf. At length our wives and relatives broke away from the throng, and darted over the plain to meet us. They fairly flew over the intervening space to welcome us in their arms. A tall sister of mine outstripped the rest, and arrived first, and immediately after my little wife was also by my side. After a warm greeting exchanged with these, the warriors came up, and saluted us with a shout that would have aroused Napoleon's Old Guard from their graves. We were lifted from our horses, and almost denuded of our clothing, and carried by the impetuous throng into the village. My father had painted his face into an exact resemblance of Satan, in token of his joy at my happy return.[1] I was kissed and caressed by my mother, sisters, and wives until I fairly gasped for breath.
Any person who has never beheld a downright rejoicing among savages can form but a faint conception of their unrestrained manifestations; words can convey no adequate idea of it. Being untutored and natural, and not restricted by any considerations of grace or propriety, they abandon themselves to their emotions, and no gesture is too exaggerated, no demonstration too violent for them to resort to.
My friend, with many others, had given me up for dead, and had adopted another in my place; so that there were now
- ↑ It is a curious fact that in such matters of disguise or art, what strikes a white man as horrible, seems to an Indian to be simply picturesque and interesting.—C. G. Leland.
