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