Below in a small valley he saw about fifty Indians, who, from their
dress and their manner of painting their faces, he knew to be of various
tribes.
He easily recognized in the band several Blackfeet, six or seven Crows,
some Sioux, who had come far north, and to his astonishment a few
Southern Indians, such as Caddos, Cheyennes, and Comanches.
This alone was enough to convince him that the Indians were outlaws and
renegades, and that they were plunderers and thieves, as well; probably
murderers hiding out from the United States troops.
In the circle about the fire he soon discovered the young fellow whose
pony he had shot beside the frozen stream.
The young Indian, for he did not appear much older than Ted himself, was
holding forth to a number of other Indians.
Probably he was boasting of his pursuit of the white boy, and the
unfortunate mishap that brought down his pony and prevented him from
bringing a white captive into camp.
Not far away from this group Ted observed a man dressed in Indian garb,
who yet did not act like the other Indians. An Indian has a peculiar,
slouching walk, while this man strode about with the smarter, quicker,
springier tread of a white man.
Presently the supposed Indian drew from his belt a pouch of tobacco and
some cigarette papers, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
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