“Nothing more than I have already said, sir,” answered Colonel Leavenworth. “I can only repeat that in my opinion the Kiowas and Comanches are the ones who have been wronged—grossly wronged by having had laid at their doors numerous misdeeds for which the other tribes of this district are responsible and for which they should be severely chastised. Here!” he added. “Here’s Satanta himself. He’ll speak for the Kiowas.”
From down the Santa Fé trail were approaching at a gallop a small party of Indians, their blankets and head-dresses tossing in the clear air. Foremost rode a man who might have been a soldier, for he wore a shirt and a sabre; but feathers in his hair announced the Indian. Diverging from the trail, to cross the level sandy sod, at a short distance from the gathering he dismounted, on the edge of camp, and leaving his horse (a superb bay, gaily decorated with paint and trappings), accompanied by the other Indians, also dismounted, he advanced on foot.
“Satanta!” ran a murmur; and officers and men stared openly.
Ned, as well as everybody else in the West, knew of Satanta, the celebrated war chief of the fighting Kiowas; leader in many a raid, and crafty and eloquent. Of medium height, but burly and muscular, he bore himself proudly. His black hair, stained vermillion at the parting, was combed smoothly down upon either side of a rather good-natured face. At the left it lengthened into a braid but at the right it was clipped short—the sign of the Kiowa. An eagle feather was stuck through, above the braid. His eyes were shrewd and twinkling, his forehead was broad and high, and under a broad straight nose was set a thin-lipped, straight mouth. From his chin grew a few bristles, but the majority evidently had been plucked out. All in all, he had an intelligent face, with a humorous touch to it.
As he strode, with his powerful frame and heavy body he made a fine figure. His sabre clanked against his bare legs, to his satisfaction, and upon the bosom of his stained cotton shirt he wore a dangling silver pendant.
“How?” grunted Satanta, as the circle opened to greet him. He shook hands all around; and with sundry “Hows?” his companions also shook hands.
The Indians stolidly seated themselves; so did the officers. From one of his followers Satanta accepted, in princely fashion, a long-stemmed pipe. It had been filled, and now with flint and steel it was lighted, and starting with Satanta was passed about. Everybody in turn solemnly took a puff. General Custer almost choked, for he did not use tobacco.