It parted, and there rode forward an imposing figure.
Gigantic, savage, stern, clad in the barbaric finery of his race, his body nearly nude, his legs and his little feet covered with bead-laden buckskin, his head surmounted with a horned war bonnet whose eagle plumes trailed down the pony's side almost to the ground, this Indian headman made a picture not easily to be forgotten nor immediately to be despised.

He sat his piebald stallion with no heed to its restive prancing.

Erect, immobile as a statue, such was the dignity of his carriage, such the stroke of his untamed eye, that each man behind the barricade sank lower and gripped his gun more tightly.

This was a personality not to be held in any hasty or ill-advised contempt.
The Indian walked his horse directly up to the barricade, his eye apparently scorning to take in its crude details.
"Me, White Calf!" he exclaimed in English, like the croak of a parrot, striking his hand upon his breast with a gesture which should have been ludicrous or pompous, but was neither.

"Me, White Calf!" said the chief again, and lifted the medal which lay upon his breast.