At this point a courier might have detained the hunters and delivered a message requesting the presence of some of them at a council of the leading men of the tribe, called to consider pressing affairs of government. Among the Plains Indians, government varied greatly, being dependent upon a combination of custom and tradition and the personal fitness and character of the chief. Perhaps the latter element played a greater part in the swiftly changing life of the nomadic tribes, while among the more settled agricultural peoples, tradition and the hereditary rights of chieftainship had more authority. Nearly all the tribes were divided into a number of clans or bands. If the supply of meat was running low, and no buffalo had been near the village for a long time, the big question before the council might have been whether or not the tribe should conduct the buffalo dance. The agricultural tribes did not like to go far from the protection of their villages because of the enemy Sioux, and often resorted to the buffalo dance, which never failed to bring the buffalo, because it was danced until buffalo came. The dancers donned buffalo skins, the head of the dancer being placed in the head of the skin so that the eyes looked out as the buffalo's had; the horns projected above the head, and the tail dragged on the ground. Thus garbed, they danced in the center of the village, going through all the antics of the buffalo. During the days of the buffalo dance, the yelping of the people and the beating of drums was continuous and deafening. Each dancer danced until exhausted, and then the others shot him with blunt arrows; whereupon he was dragged to one side, and theoretically skinned and cut up. Other dancers replaced those thus removed, and the dance was kept up until buffalo came. Sometimes the Sioux out on the prairie put on buffalo hides and decoyed the villagers forth to be ambushed. The ceremony of the rain makers was another that was always effective because it was continued until the desired results were achieved. Evidently there were droughts in those days, too, and the fields of Mandan corn withered in the hot summer suns. Catlin tells the story of one rain maker, who, mounting his lodge and vaunting his powers, called upon the clouds to bring rain. Just as he was about to retire in failure and disgrace, out of a clear sky came apparent thunder. The sound, however, turned out to be a salute fired by the steamer _Yellowstone_ on her first trip up the Missouri. At first nonplussed, the rain maker finally made capital out of this coincidence when, later in the day, a large cloud jutted up on the horizon, and a heavy rain began and continued far into the night.