Cimarron by Edna Ferber

Indians were no novelty to the townspeople of Wichita. Sabra had seen them all her life. At the age of three Cim was held up in his father's arms to watch a great band of them go by on one of their annual pilgrimages. He played Indian, of course, patting his lips to simulate the Indian yodeling yell. He had a war bonnet made of chicken feathers sewed to the edge of a long strip of red calico.

Twice a year, chaperoned by old General "Bull" Plummer, the Indians swept through the streets of Wichita in their visiting regalia -- feathers, beads, blankets, chains -- a brilliant sight. Ahead of them and behind them was the reassuring blue of United States army uniforms worn by the Kansas regiment from Fort Riley. All Wichita, accustomed to them though it was, rushed out to gaze at them from store doorways and offices and kitchens. Bucks, braves, chiefs, squaws, papooses; teepees, poles, pots, dogs, ponies, the cavalcade swept through the quiet sunny streets of the midwestern town, a vivid frieze of color against the drab monotony of the prairies.