The truth of it was, he was a Kiowa, and his attitude was that of a sleeping person.
A dirty blanket was gathered about his shoulders, and his head, with its straggling horse-hair covering, drooped so far forward that the line of the face was at right angles with that of the chest.

The up-drawn knees were separated enough to permit a long, gleaming rifle to rest between them, the barrel partly supported by the shoulder, with the stock at his feet, while if the aquiline nose, clear cut against the dim fire beyond, had descended three or four inches lower, it would have been shut off from view by the same knees.

The blanket was thrown back far enough to reveal the body, legs and moccasins of the warrior, which were those of a man of powerful frame and great activity.
The camp-fire had smoldered as though it had not been replenished for hours.

Still it diffused a steady, subdued glow, from the other side of the figure, as if the latter were stamped in ink, and the picture was a striking one in every respect.
After Fred had scrutinized it a few minutes he gathered more courage and took in the surroundings.

These were not very extensive, but such as they were, they were of a hopeful nature.