“These Red Indians are not red,” was our first cry when we saw the Utes in the streets of Denver. They had come into town to be painted as English ladies go to London to shop; and we saw them engaged within a short time after their coming in daubing their cheeks with vermilion and blue, and referring to glasses which the squaws admiringly held. Still, when we met them with peaceful paintless cheeks, we had seen that their colour was brown, copper, dirt, anything you please except red.

The Hurons, with whom I had stayed at Indian Lorette, were French in training if not in blood; the Pottawatomies of St. Mary's Mission, the Delawares of Leavenworth, are tame, not wild: it is true that they can hardly be called red. But still I had expected to have found these wild prairie and mountain Indians of the colour from which they take their name. Save for paint, I found them of a colour wholly different from that which we call red.

Low in stature, yellow-skinned, small-eyed, and Tartar-faced, the Indians of the Plains are a distinct people from the tall, hook-nosed warriors of the Eastern States.