Chapter 25

What, are ancient Pistol and you friends, yet?
--Shakspeare.

The curtain of our imperfect drama must fall, to rise upon another
scene. The time is advanced several days, during which very material
changes had occurred in the situation of the actors. The hour is noon,
and the place an elevated plain, that rose, at no great distance from
the water, somewhat abruptly from a fertile bottom, which stretched
along the margin of one of the numberless water-courses of that
region. The river took its rise near the base of the Rocky Mountains,
and, after washing a vast extent of plain, it mingled its waters with
a still larger stream, to become finally lost in the turbid current of
the Missouri.

The landscape was changed materially for the better; though the hand,
which had impressed so much of the desert on the surrounding region,
had laid a portion of its power on this spot. The appearance of
vegetation was, however, less discouraging than in the more sterile
wastes of the rolling prairies. Clusters of trees were scattered in
greater profusion, and a long outline of ragged forest marked the
northern boundary of the view. Here and there, on the bottom, were to
be seen the evidences of a hasty and imperfect culture of such
indigenous vegetables as were of a quick growth, and which were known
to flourish, without the aid of art, in deep and alluvial soils. On
the very edge of what might be called the table-land, were pitched the
hundred lodges of a horde of wandering Siouxes. Their light tenements
were arranged without the least attention to order. Proximity to the
water seemed to be the only consideration which had been consulted in
their disposition, nor had even this important convenience been always
regarded. While most of the lodges stood along the brow of the plain,
many were to be seen at greater distances, occupying such places as
had first pleased the capricious eyes of their untutored owners. The
encampment was not military, nor in the slightest degree protected
from surprise by its position or defences. It was open on every side,
and on every side as accessible as any other point in those wastes, if
the imperfect and natural obstruction offered by the river be
excepted. In short, the place bore the appearance of having been
tenanted longer than its occupants had originally intended, while it
was not wanting in the signs of readiness for a hasty, or even a
compelled departure.

This was the temporary encampment of that portion of his people, who
had long been hunting under the direction of Mahtoree, on those
grounds which separated the stationary abodes of his nation, from
those of the warlike tribes of the Pawnees. The lodges were tents of
skin, high, conical, and of the most simple