A smile of kindness illumined the grim face of our savage host, as he bade us farewell. The horses were saddled; the oxen were yoked, and had commenced moving onward. We were preparing to mount, when our attention was attracted by a low, and not inharmonious cry, which rose from the distant part of the village. It came nearer and nearer, sinking into a long wailing moan, in which many voices were united. At length a train of Indians emerged from behind one of the lodges. They were dressed in white buffalo robes.[K] They approached us slowly, still wailing out their mournful chant; and we recognized them for our party of delegates, and their fellow travellers. [K] The white buffalo robe is so called, merely from one of its sides being whitened with chalk, in dressing it. The wool is of the same colour as that of all others, (a dark brown.) They were in fact singing their death-song, as is customary with all the Indian tribes, before setting out, upon any perilous expedition. It is merely a recounting of their different exploits in battle, and winds up, by taking leave of their friends and fellow townsmen. Although it is sung with an air of vast resignation, by all; and although you would think, that after it, the songster, would go to the grave, “like a lamb to the slaughter;” yet from all that I could ever learn, there are no people that have a greater antipathy to dying, than the savages, or take more trouble to keep out of harm’s way. The melancholy dirge swelled loudly as the long train moved past us; but it gradually became fainter, and fainter, as they wound their way among the distant lodges, and disappeared. In a few moments, we were galloping over the prairie, to overtake some of the party who had preceded us. A train of Indians followed us, and the tops of the lodges were crowded. After travelling a mile, we at last crossed the top of a ridge, and lost sight of the town. CHAPTER XIV. _Storm.—Dog Feast._ A heavy storm of mingled snow and rain set in, on the day after our departure from the Pawnee village. If there is any thing truly comfortless, it is a camp upon a rainy day. Every thing combined to add to its gloomy character. The fly of the tent, which might have afforded us protection, had been torn to tatters; and the roof of our canvas house, settled down into a bag. Through this a steady stream of water distilled, upon the centre of a board, which we had honoured with the appellation of a breakfast table. The blankets were rolled up, and piled in the middle of the tent, covered by a large bear-skin. This was nearly saturated with the drizzling moisture. A large pile of green logs, heaped up in front of the tent, refused to burn, but yielded a bountiful supply of smoke, which the wind occasionally wafted in clouds into our canvas habitation.