There was something wildly noble, about this little band of Otoes. They were adorned with all the coxcombry of Indians, before they have degenerated from savage men, to civilized beasts. There was a frank, gallant bearing about them; a native chivalry, which caused us almost unconsciously to place more confidence in them, than in their fierce, untamed associates. Behind them, resting against the trees, were their borrowed rifles, glittering beneath the blaze of the fire. Around us in every direction, were the rough wicker sheds of the Pawnees, their fires gleaming with an uncertain, lurid light, among the tall, straight trunks of the overhanging grove. The Indians in their shaggy robes, were flitting to and fro like troubled spirits; now hid in the gloom of the night, and now their dark eyes glittering, and their painted faces glaring, as they moved in the light of some blazing pile. Some had wrapped their robes closely round them, and sat buried in a gloomy reverie, with their scowling eyes fixed upon the burning logs, taking no part in the conversation of their comrades, nor any note of what was going on around them. At length one of the young warriors struck up a wild song, which made the woods re-echo. Another joined it, and another, until the whole of the group round that fire, were engrossed in the theme. A single voice from a distant pile then struck in, another followed. Another fire then added its voice, and gradually it spread from one group to another, until every throat in the whole Pawnee troop, had united in it. It sung of war, and well did the gestures, and wildly energetic tones of the singers, express the meaning of the words. In parts, the blended voices swelled on the night air, with a mournfully melodious sound; but when the howl, with which they ended every verse, burst from the throats of the whole band, it was thrilling and fearful. The Otoes caught the wild enthusiasm of the moment, and they too added their voices to the savage concert, until it almost seemed to rend the black canopy above us. The song was kept up till after midnight; for long after we had retired to our tents, it frequently awoke us from our slumbers, or mingled in the phantasmagoria of our dreams. CHAPTER XIX. _Separation from Party.—Burning Prairie.—Wolves.—Journey._ It was scarcely sunrise, before the dark grove echoed with preparations for our departure. The voice of our mongrel French boy, Joe, was heard, hailing the mules, which had strayed for pasturage, some distance down the bottom. The soldiers loaded the pack-horses; the Pawnees collected together their scanty stock of cooking utensils, and packed them upon the back of a lean, bony nag, whose evil destiny had made him drudge-horse to the Indian host; and the old Iotan saw his wife snugly tucked away in one of the dearborn wagons, and stationed himself as guide, at the border of the forest, waiting for the movements of the band.