The Indian lodges differed very little from each other, being of a
rough, substantial character, built with an eye to comfort rather than
beauty. One at the extreme northern edge of the village is that with
which our story deals. A brief description of it will serve as a
general daguerreotype of all those wild abodes.

The wigwam was composed of skins and bark, the latter greatly
predominating. The shape was that of a cone. The framework was of
poles, the lower ends of which were placed in a sort of circle, while
the tops were intersected, leaving a small opening, through which the
smoke reached the clear air above. Unsightly and repulsive as this
might seem from the outside view, the dwelling, nevertheless, was
water-proof and comfortable, and abundantly answered the end for which
it was built.

A thin vapor was ascending in a bluish spiral at the top of the lodge
indicated. A Shawnee squaw was occupied in preparing the morning meal,
while her liege lord still reclined in one corner, in the vain effort
to secure a few minutes more of slumber. This latter personage was
Hans Vanderbum--our friend Hans--a huge, plethoric, stolid, lazy
Dutchman, who had "married" an Indian widow several years before. At
the time of her marriage this squaw had a boy some three or four years
of age, while a second one, the son of the Dutchman, was now just large
enough to be as mischievous as a kitten. They were a couple of greasy,
copper-hued little rascals, with eyes as black as midnight, and long,
wiry hair, like that of a horse's mane. Brimful of animal spirits,
they were just the reverse of Hans Vanderbum, whose laziness and
stupidity were only excelled by his indifference to the dignity and
rights of human nature.