his fingers in the face of the injured husband, had defied the extremity of his indignation, and no one yet had dared to lay the finger of violence upon him.  He was following close in the footsteps of his father.  The young men and the young squaws, each in their way, admired him.  The one would always follow him to war, and he was esteemed to have unrivaled charm in the eyes of the other.  Perhaps his impunity may excite some wonder.  An arrow shot from a ravine, a stab given in the dark, require no great valor, and are especially suited to the Indian genius; but Mahto-Tatonka had a strong protection.  It was not alone his courage and audacious will that enabled him to career so dashingly among his compeers.  His enemies did not forget that he was one of thirty warlike brethren, all growing up to manhood.  Should they wreak their anger upon him, many keen eyes would be ever upon them, many fierce hearts would thirst for their blood.  The avenger would dog their footsteps everywhere.  To kill Mahto-Tatonka would be no better than an act of suicide.

Though he found such favor in the eyes of the fair, he was no dandy.  As among us those of highest worth and breeding are most simple in manner and attire, so our aspiring young friend was indifferent to the gaudy trappings and ornaments of his companions.  He was content to rest his chances of success upon his own warlike merits.  He never arrayed himself in gaudy blanket and glittering necklaces, but left his statue-like form, limbed like an Apollo of bronze, to win its way to favor.  His voice was singularly deep and strong.  It sounded from his chest like the deep notes of an organ.  Yet after all, he was but an Indian.  See him as he lies there in the sun before our tent, kicking his heels in the air and cracking jokes with his brother.  Does he look like a hero?  See him now in the hour of his glory, when at sunset the whole village empties itself to behold him, for to-morrow their favorite young partisan goes out against the enemy.  His superb headdress is adorned with a crest of the war eagle’s feathers, rising in a waving ridge above his brow, and sweeping far behind him.  His round white shield hangs at his breast, with feathers radiating from the center like a star.  His quiver is at his back; his tall lance in his hand, the iron point flashing against the declining sun, while the long scalp-locks of his enemies flutter from the shaft.  Thus, gorgeous as a champion in his panoply, he rides round and round within the great circle of lodges, balancing with a graceful buoyancy to the free movements of his war horse, while with a sedate brow he sings his song to the Great Spirit.  Young rival warriors look askance at him; vermilion-cheeked girls gaze in admiration, boys whoop and scream in a thrill of delight, and old women yell forth his name and proclaim his praises from lodge to lodge.

Mahto-Tatonka, to come back to him, was the best of all our Indian friends.  Hour after hour and day after day, when swarms of savages of every age, sex, and degree beset our camp, he would lie in our tent, his lynx eye ever open to guard our property from pillage.