Mounted figures now began to appear on the ridge about a mile away, and presently the entire band was halted upon the eminence. Then a couple of warriors rode out from the main body, and advancing a little distance, made the peace-sign. By way of answer a white towel was run up on a pole and waved above the waggon corral. "I want you to see this, Miss Santorex," said Vipan. "It's a sight you may not see again in a lifetime." The band had now left its halting place and was riding slowly down towards the camp. If in the wild fury of their swooping charge the Indians had worn a savagely picturesque aspect, with their waving plumes, and flowing tags and scalp-locks on weapon and garment, none the less now was the appearance of the warrior phalanx stately and striking to the last degree. So thought Yseulte Santorex, as she gazed with more admiration than fear upon this array of the barbaric chivalry of the Western plains. The Indians approached in crescent formation, some half-dozen chiefs riding a little in advance. All were in their war-paint--the dresses of some being, moreover, exceeding rich with colour and embroidery--the eagle-plumed crest of many a noted brave streaming to the ground as he rode. Not a warrior but showed some bit of gorgeous colour. Even the ponies' manes were adorned with feathers and vermilion, and the lance-heads and floating pennants gleaming above the sea of fierce stern faces put the finishing touch to a battle array as martial and gallant-looking as it was redoubtable and ruthlessly unsparing. "It is magnificent!" said Yseulte, as from the coign of vantage which the other had secured for her she surveyed the approaching band. "What tribe are they, Mr Vipan?" "Sioux. There may be a few Cheyennes among them, but the war-party is a Sioux one. Take the glass, and I'll tell you who some of them are. The chief there most to the right is Crow-Scalper, of the Uncpapa clan, a record of whose atrocities would keep you awake at night for a week." "He's a splendid-looking fellow," commented the girl, gazing withal at the gigantic warrior who had led the last and most persistent charge upon the camp. "Oh, yes; I know him well. Many's the hour I've spent in his lodge making him talk. Now, look again. The middle one is Mountain Cat--the trappers call him Catamount, but the other's the real rendering of his name. He hates the whites more than any Indian on this continent, and would willingly put a bullet into me if he got the chance. He's an Ogallalla, and a good big chief too." "He looks an awful savage," answered Yseulte, with the glass still at her eyes. "I never saw a more diabolical expression. Who is the man who has just joined them?" "Lone Panther--a half-bred Cheyenne--a small chief in standing, but a fiend when he heads a war-party. And now I must leave you for a little, and go and hear what they have to say. It may interest you to watch the progress of our conference through the glass."