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He was guarded by the two squaws who had been brought along to work for the thirty-eight men. They worked for the men, little Dave worked for them; and frequently they struck him, and told him that when the Cheyenne village was reached again he would be burnt.

In the bright sunshine, amidst the great expanse of open, uninhabited country, the Indian column, riding with its scouts out, made a gallant sight. The ponies, bay, dun, black, white, spotted, were adorned with paint, gay streamers and jingly pendants. The men were bareheaded and bare bodied; on this warm day of June they had thrown off their robes and blankets. But what they lacked in clothing, they supplied in decoration.

Down the parting of the smoothly-combed black hair was run vermilion; vermilion and ochre and blue and white and black streaked coppery forehead, high cheek-bones and firm chin, and lay lavishly over brawny chest and sinewy arms. At the parting of the braids were stuck feathers—common feathers for the braves, tipped eagle feathers for the chiefs. The long braids themselves were wrapped in otter-skin and red flannel. From ears hung copper and brass and silver pendants. Upon wrists and upper arms were broad bracelets and armlets of copper. Upon feet were beaded moccasins worked in tribal designs. The fashion of the paint and the style of the moccasins it was which said that these riders were Cheyennes.