By this time we had come to a place where a fair-sized burn issued from a shallow glen in the savannah.  There was a peeled wand stuck in a burnt tree above the water, and this Ringan took and broke very carefully into two equal pieces, and put them back in the hole.  From this point onwards I had the feeling that the long grass and the clumps of bushes held watchers.  They made no noise, but I could have sworn to the truth of my notion.  Ringan, whose senses were keener than mine, would stop every now and again and raise his hand as if in signal.  At one place we halted dead for five minutes, and at another he dismounted and cut a tuft of sumach, which he laid over his saddle.  Then at the edge of a thicket he stopped again, and held up both hands above his head.  Instantly a tall Indian stepped from the cover, saluted, and walked by our side.  In five minutes more we rounded a creek of the burn and were at the encampment.

’Twas the first time I had ever seen an Indian village.  The tents, or teepees, were of skins stretched over poles, and not of bark, like those of the woodland tribes.  At a great fire in the centre women were grilling deer’s flesh, while little brown children strove and quarrelled for scraps, I saw few men, for the braves were out hunting or keeping watch at the approaches.  One young lad took the horses, and led us to a teepee bigger than the others, outside of which stood a finely-made savage, with heron’s feathers in his hair, and a necklace of polished shells.  On his Iron face there was no flicker of welcome or recognition, but he shook hands silently with the two of us, and struck a blow on a dry gourd.  Instantly three warriors appeared, and took their place by his side.  Then all of us sat down and a pipe was lit and handed by the chief to Ringan.  He took a puff and gave it to one of the other Indians, who handed it to me.  With that ceremony over, the tongue of the chief seemed to be unloosed.  “The Sachem comes,” he said, and an old man sat himself down beside us.

He was a strange figure to meet in an Indian camp.  A long white beard hung down to his middle, and his unshorn hair draped his shoulders like a fleece.  His clothing was of tanned skin, save that he had a belt of Spanish leather, and on his feet he wore country shoes and not the Indian moccasins.  The eyes in his head were keen and youthful, and though he could not have been less than sixty he carried himself with the vigour of a man in his prime.  Below his shaggy locks was a high, broad forehead, such as some college professor might have borne who had given all his days to the philosophies.  He seemed to have been disturbed in reading, for he carried in his hand a little book with a finger marking his place.  I caught a glimpse of the title, and saw that it was Mr. Locke’s new “Essay on the Human Understanding.”

Ringan spoke to the chief in his own tongue, but the Sioux language was beyond me.  Mr. Lawrence joined in, and I saw the Indian’s eyes kindle.  He shook his head, and seemed to deny something.  Then he poured forth a flood of talk, and when he had finished Ringan spoke to me.