IRLF 
 
ft. 
 
 ffilliam A. S. KendaL 
 
THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
Drawn by F. E. Schoonover 
 
 THE RACE WITH THE FIRE 
 
 .See "The Nemesis of the Deuces," page : >0\ 
 
THE 
 
 LONESOME 
 TRAIL 
 
 BY 
 JOHN G. NEIHARDT 
 
 " In the fell clutch of circumstance 
 I have not winced nor cried aloud." 
 
 NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMVII 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1907, 
 
 BY 
 JOHN G. NEIHARDT 
 
PS3B27 
 
 TO 
 
 VOLNEY STREAMER 
 " Friend of my Yester-age 
 
 M555071 
 
The stories in this volume have appeared in the 
 following magazines: Munsey s, The American 
 Magazine, The Smart Set, The Scrap Book, The 
 All-Story, Watsons, Overland Monthly. The 
 author gratefully acknowledges permission to re- 
 publish. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE ALIEN n 
 
 II. THE LOOK IN THE FACE . . . 3 1 
 
 III. FEATHER FOR FEATHER .... 45 
 
 IV. THE SCARS . . . ... 58 
 
 V. THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER . . 75 
 
 VI. THE ART OF HATE ... . 93 
 
 VII. THE SINGER OF THE ACHE . , . . no 
 
 VIII. THE WHITE WAKUNDA . V . 123 
 
 IX. THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA . . . 143 
 
 X. THE END OF THE DREAM . V . 151 
 
 XL THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP . . . 168 
 
 XII. THE MARK OF SHAME . . . .182 
 
 XIII. THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS . . 194 
 
 XIV. DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN . . 204 
 XV. THE SMILE OF GOD . . . .219 
 
 XVI. THE HEART OF A WOMAN . . .229 
 
 XVII. MIGNON 239 
 
 XVIII. A POLITICAL COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA . 255 
 
 XIX. THE LAST THUNDER SONG . . .276 
 
 XX. THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES ... . 288 
 
THE OLD CRY 
 
 O Mourner in the silence of the hills, 
 
 Thing of ancient griefs, art thou a wolff 
 
 1 heard a cry that shook me was it thine? 
 
 Low in the mystic purple of the west 
 The weird moon hangs, a tarnished silver slug: 
 Vast, vast the hollow empty night curves down, 
 Stabbed with the glass-like glinting of the stars, 
 And, save when that wild cry grows up anon, 
 No sound but this dull murmur of the hush 
 The winter hush. 
 
 Hark! once again thy cry! 
 Thy strange, sharp, ice-like, tenuous complaint, 
 As though the spirit of this frozen waste 
 Pinched with the cruel frost yearned summerward! 
 
 1 know thou art a wolf that criest so: 
 Though hidden in the shadow, I can see 
 Thy four feet huddled in the numbing frost, 
 Thy snout, breath-whitened, pointing to the sky: 
 Poor pariah of the plains, I know tis thou. 
 
 And yet and yet I heard a kinsman shout! 
 
 Down through the intricate centuries it came, 
 
 A far-blown cry! From old-world graves it grew, 
 
 Up through the tumbled walls of ancient realms, 
 
 Up through the lizard-haunted heaps of stone, 
 
 Up through the choking ashes of old fanes, 
 
 The pitiful debris where Grandeur dwelt, 
 
 Out of the old-world wilderness it grew 
 
 The cry I know! And I have heard my Kin! 
 
THE ALIEN 
 
 THROUGH the quiet night, crystalline with 
 the pervading spirit of the frost, under 
 prairie skies of mystic purple pierced with 
 the glass-like glinting of the stars, fled Antoine. 
 
 Huge and hollow-sounding with the clatter of the 
 pinto s hoofs hung the night above and about lone 
 some, empty, bitter as the soul of him who fled. 
 
 A weary age of flight since sunset; and now the 
 midnight saw the thin-limbed, long-haired pony 
 slowly losing his nerve, tottering, rasping in the 
 throat. With pitiless spike-spurred heels the rider 
 hurled the beast into the empty night. 
 
 " Gwan ! you blasted cayuse ! you overgrown wolf- 
 dog ! you pot-bellied shonga ! Keep up that tune ; 
 I m goin somewheres. What d I steal you fer? 
 Pleasure? He, he, he, ho, ho, ho! I reckon; pleas 
 ure for the half-breed ! Gwan ! " 
 
 Suddenly rounding a bank of sand, the pinto 
 sighted the broad, ice-bound river, an elysian stream 
 of glinting silver under the stars. Sniffing and 
 crouching upon its haunches at the sudden glow that 
 dwindled a gleaming thread into the further dusk, 
 the jaded beast received a series of vicious jabs from 
 the spike-spurred heels. It groaned and lunged for- 
 
 ii 
 
12 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 ward again, taking with uncertain feet the glaring 
 path ahead, and awakening dull, snarling thunder in 
 the under regions of the ice. Slipping, struggling, 
 doing its brute best to overcome fatigue and the un 
 certainty of its path, the pinto covered the ice. 
 
 " Doin a war dance, eh? " growled the man with 
 bitter mirth, and gouging the foaming bloody flanks 
 of the animal. " Gwan! Set up that tune; I want 
 fast music, cause I m goin somewheres don t know 
 where somewheres out there in the shadders ! Come 
 here, will you ? Take that and that and that I Now 
 will you kick the scen ry back ards ? By the ! " 
 
 The brutal cries of the man were cut short as he 
 shot far over the pommel, lunging headlong over the 
 pinto s head, and striking with head and shoulders 
 upon the glare ice. When he stopped sliding he lay 
 very still for a few moments. Then he groaned, 
 sat up, and found that the bluffs and the river and the 
 stars and the universe in general were whirling gid 
 dily, with himself for the dizzy centre. 
 
 With uncertain arms he reached out, endeavouring 
 to check the sickening motion of things with the sheer 
 force of his powerful hands. He was thrown down 
 like a weakling wrestling with a giant. He lay still, 
 cursing in a whisper, trying to steady the universe, 
 until the motion passed, leaving in his nerves the 
 sickening sensation incident to the sudden ending of a 
 rapid flight. 
 
 With great care Antoine raised himself upon his 
 elbows and gazed about with an imbecile leer. Then 
 
THE ALIEN 13 
 
 he began to remember; remembered that he was 
 hunted; that he was an outcast, a man of no race; 
 remembered dimly, and with a malignant grin, a por 
 tion of a long series of crimes ; remembered that the 
 last was horse-stealing and that some of the others 
 concerned blood. And as he remembered, he felt 
 with horrible distinctness the lariat tightening about 
 his neck the lariat that the men of Cabanne s trad 
 ing post were bringing on fleet horses, nearer, nearer, 
 nearer through the silent night. 
 
 Antoine shuddered and got to his feet, looming 
 huge against the star-sprent surface of the ice, as he 
 turned a face of bestial malevolence down trail and 
 listened for the beat of hoofs. There was only the 
 dim, hollow murmur that dwells at the heart of 
 silence. 
 
 " Got a long start," he observed, with the chuckle 
 of a man whom desperation has made careless. 
 
 A pale, semicircular glow, like the flare of a burn 
 ing straw stack a half day s journey over the hills, 
 had grown up at the horizon of the east; and as the 
 man stared, still in a maze from his recent fall, the 
 moon heaved a tarnished silver arc above the mystic 
 rim of sky, flooding with new light the river and the 
 bluffs. The man stood illumined a big brute of a 
 man, heavy-limbed, massive-shouldered, with the 
 slouching stoop and the alert air of an habitual 
 skulker. He moved uneasily, as though he had 
 suddenly become visible to some lurking foe. He 
 
i 4 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 glanced nervously about him, fumbled at the butt 
 of a six-shooter at his belt, then catching sight of 
 the blotch of huddled dusk that was the fallen pinto, 
 the meaning of the situation flashed upon him. 
 
 " That cussed cayuse ! Gone and done hisself like 
 as not! Damn me! the whole creation s agin 
 me!" 
 
 He made for the pony, snarling viciously as though 
 its exhausted, lacerated self were the visible body of 
 the inimical universe. He grasped the reins and 
 jerked them violently. The brute only groaned and 
 let its weary head fall heavily upon the ice. 
 
 "Get up!" 
 
 Antoine began kicking the pony in the ribs, bring 
 ing forth great hollow bellowings of pain. 
 
 " O, you won t get up, eh? Agin me too, eh? Take 
 that, and that and that! I wished you was everybody 
 in the whole world and hell to oncet, I d make you 
 beller now I got you down ! Take that! " 
 
 The man with a roar of anger fell upon the pony, 
 snarling, striking, kicking, but the pony only groaned. 
 Its limbs could no longer support its body. When 
 Antoine had exhausted his rage, he got up, gave the 
 pony a parting kick on the nose, and started off at 
 a dogtrot across the glinting ice towards the bluffs 
 beyond. 
 
 Ever and anon he stopped and whirled about with 
 hand at ear. He heard only the sullen murmur of 
 the silence, broken occasionally by the whine and pop 
 of the ice and the plaintive, bitter wail of the coyotes 
 
OTHE ALIEN 15 
 
 somewhere in the hills, like the heartbroken cry of 
 the lonesome prairie, yearning for the summer. 
 
 " O, I wouldn t howl if I was you," muttered the 
 man to the coyotes; " I wished I was a coyote or a 
 grey wolf, knowin what I do. I d be a man-killer 
 and a cattle-killer, I would. And then I d have peo 
 ple of my own. Wouldn t be no cur of a half-breed 
 runnin from his kind. O, I wouldn t howl if I was 
 you!" 
 
 He proceeded at a swinging trot across the half 
 mile of ice and halted under the bluffs. He listened 
 intently. A far sound had grown up in the hollow 
 night vague, but unmistakable. It was the clatter 
 of hoofs far away, but clear in faintness, for the cold 
 snap had made the prairie one vast sounding-board. 
 A light snow had fallen the night before, and the 
 trail of the refugee was traced in the moonlight, dis 
 tinct as a wagon track. 
 
 Antoine felt the pitiless pinch of the approaching 
 lariat as he listened. Then his accustomed bitter 
 weariness of life came upon the pariah. 
 
 " What s the use of me runnin ? What am I run 
 nin to? Nothin only more of the same thing I m 
 runnin from; lonesomeness and hunger and the like 
 of that. Gettin awake stiff and cold and half starved 
 and cussin the daylight cause it s agin me like every 
 thing else, and gives me away. Sneakin around in 
 the brush till dark, eatin when I can like a damned 
 wolf, then goin to sleep hopin it ll never get day. 
 But it always does. It s all night somewheres, I guess, 
 
1 6 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 spite of what the missionaries says. That s fer me 
 night always! No comin day, no gettin up, some 
 where to hide snug in always ! " 
 
 He walked on with head dropped forward upon 
 his breast, skirting the base of the bluffs, now seem 
 ingly oblivious of the sound of hoofs that grew mo 
 mently more distinct. 
 
 As he walked, he was dimly conscious of passing 
 the dark mouth of a hole running back into the clay 
 of a bluff. He proceeded until he found himself 
 again at the edge of the river, staring down into a 
 broad, black fissure in the ice, caused, doubtless, by 
 the dash of the current crossing from the other side. 
 
 A terrible, dark, but alluring thought seized him. 
 Here was the place the doorway to that place 
 where it was always night ! Why not go in ? There 
 would be no more running away, no more hiding, no 
 more hatred of men, no more lonesomeness ! Here 
 was the place at last. 
 
 He stepped forward and stooped to gaze down into 
 the door of night. The rushing waters made a dis 
 mal, moaning sound. 
 
 He stared transfixed. Yes, he would go! 
 
 Suddenly a shudder ran through his limbs. He 
 gave a quick exclamation of terror ! He leaped back 
 and raised his face to the skies. 
 
 How kind and soft and gentle and good to look 
 upon was the sky ! He gazed about it was so fair 
 a world ! How good it was to breathe ! He longed 
 to throw his great, brute arms about creation and 
 
THE ALIEN 17 
 
 clutch it to him, and hold it, hold it, hold it! He 
 wished to live. 
 
 The hoofs! 
 
 The distant muffled confusion of sound had grown 
 into sharp, distinct, staccato notes. The pursuers 
 were now less than a mile away. Soon they would 
 reach the river. 
 
 With the quick instinct of the hunted beast, An- 
 toine knew the means of safety. His footprints led 
 to the ice-fissure. He decided that none should lead 
 away. He could not be pursued under ice. Stooping 
 so that he could look between his legs, he began re 
 tracing his steps, walking backward, placing his feet 
 with infinite care where they had fallen before. Thus 
 he came again to the hole in the clay bluff, and dis 
 appeared. His trail had passed within a foot of the 
 hole, which was overhung by a jutting point of sand 
 stone. No snow had fallen at the entrance; he left 
 no trail as he entered. 
 
 Stopping upon his hands and knees, he listened and 
 could hear distinctly the sharp crack of hoofs upon the 
 ice and the pop and thunder of the frozen surface. 
 
 " Here s some luck," muttered Antoine. He 
 crawled on into the nether darkness of the hole that 
 grew more spacious as he proceeded. As he crawled, 
 the sound of pursuing hoofs grew dimmer. Antoine 
 half forgot them. His keen sense had caught the 
 peculiar musty odour of animal life. He felt ai stuffy 
 warmth in his nostrils as he breathed. 
 
 Suddenly out of the dark ahead grew up two points 
 
1 8 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 of phosphorescent light. Antoine fell back upon his 
 haunches with a little growl of surprise in his throat. 
 Years of wild lonesome life had made him more beast 
 than man. 
 
 The lights slowly came closer, growing more bril 
 liant. Then there was a harsh, rasping growl and a 
 sound of sniffing. Antoine waited until the expand 
 ing pupils of his eyes could grasp the situation with 
 more distinctness. " Can t run," he mused. " Lariat 
 behind, somethin growlin in front. It s one more 
 fight. Here goes fer my damnedest. Rather die 
 mad and fightin than jump into cold water or stick 
 my head through a rawhide necktie ! " 
 
 He crawled on carefully. The lights approached 
 with a strange swaying motion. Then of a sudden 
 came a whine, a sharp, savage yelp, and Antoine felt 
 his cheek ripped open with a stroke of gnashing 
 teeth ! 
 
 He felt for an instant the hot breath of the beast, 
 the trickle of hot blood on his cheek; and then all 
 that was human in him passed. He growled and 
 hurled the sinewy body of his unseen foe from him 
 with a blow of his bear-like paw. He was a big man, 
 and in his blood the primitive beast had grown large 
 through long years of lonesome hiding from his 
 kind. 
 
 The dark hole echoed a muffled howl of anger, and 
 in an instant man and beast rolled together in the 
 darkness. It was a primitive struggle; the snapping 
 of jaws, the rasping of hoarse throats that laboured 
 
THE ALIEN 19 
 
 with angry breath, snarlings of hate, yelps of pain, 
 growls, whines. 
 
 At last the man knew that it was a grey wolf he 
 fought. He reached for its throat, but felt his hand 
 caught in a hot, wet, powerful trap of teeth. He 
 grasped the under jaw with a grip that made his an 
 tagonist howl with pain. Then with his other hand 
 he felt about in the darkness, groping for the throat. 
 
 He found it, seized it with a vice-like clutch, shut 
 his teeth together, and threw all of the power of his 
 massive frame into the struggle. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, the struggles of the wolf became 
 weaker. The lean, hairy form fell limply, and the 
 man laughed with a strange, sobbing, guttural mirth 
 for he was master. 
 
 Then again he felt the trickle of blood upon his 
 cheek, the ache of his bitten hand. His anger re 
 turned with double fury. He kicked the limp body 
 as he lay beside it, never releasing his grip. 
 
 Suddenly he forgot to kick. There were sounds 1 
 He heard the thump thump of hoofs passing his place 
 of refuge. Then they ceased. There were sounds of 
 voices coming dimly; then after a while the hoofs 
 passed again, and there was a voice that said " saved 
 hangin anyway." 
 
 The hoof beats grew dimmer, and Antoine knew 
 by their hollow sound that his pursuers had begun to 
 cross the ice on the back trail. He again gave his 
 attention to the wolf. It lay very still. A feeling 
 of supreme comfort came over Antoine. It was 
 
20 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 sweet to be a master. He laid his head upon the 
 wolf s motionless body. He was very weary, he had 
 conquered, and he would sleep upon his prey. 
 
 He awoke feeling a warm, rasping something upon 
 his wounded cheek. A faint light came in at the 
 entrance of the place. It was morning. In his sleep 
 Antoine had moved his head close to the muzzle of 
 the wolf. Now, utterly conquered, bruised, unable 
 to arise, the brute was feebly licking the blood from 
 the man s wound. 
 
 Antoine s sense of mastery after his sound sleep 
 made him kind for once. He was safe and something 
 had caressed him, altho it was only a soundly-beaten 
 wolf. 
 
 " You pore devil!" said Antoine with a sudden 
 softness in his voice; " I done you up, didn t I? You 
 hain t so bad, I guess; but if I hadn t done you, I d 
 got done myself. Hurt much, you pore devil, eh? " 
 
 He stroked the side of the animal, whereupon it 
 cried out with pain. 
 
 " Pretty sore, eh? Well as long as I m bigger n 
 you, I ll be good to you, I will. I ain t so bad, am 
 I ? You treat me square and you won t never get no 
 bad deals from the half-breed; mind that. Hel-/o/ 
 you re a Miss Wolf, ain t you? Well, for the present, 
 I m a Mister Wolf, and I m a good un! Let me 
 hunt you up a name; somethin soft like a woman, 
 cause you did touch me kind of tender like. Susette! 
 that s it Susette. You re Susette now. I hain t 
 got no people, so I m a wolf from now on, and my 
 
THE ALIEN 21 
 
 name s Antoine. Susette and Antoine sounds pretty 
 good, don t it? Say, I know as much about bein a 
 wolf as you do. Can t teach me nothin about sneak- 
 in and hidin and fightin ! Say, old girl, hain t I a 
 tol able good fighter now? O, I know I am, and 
 when you need it again, you re goin to get it good 
 and hard, Susette; mind that. Hain t got nothin to 
 eat about the house, have you, old girl? Then, bein 
 head of the family with a sick woman about, I m 
 goin huntin . Don t you let no other wolf come 
 skulkin around! You know me! I ll wear his skin 
 when I come back, if you don t mind! " 
 
 And he went out. 
 
 Before noon he returned bringing three jack rab 
 bits, having shot them with his six-shooter. " Well, 
 Susette," said he, " got any appetite? " 
 
 He passed his hand over the wolf s snout caress 
 ingly. The wolf flinched in fear, but the man con 
 tinued his caresses until she licked his hand. 
 
 " Now we re friends and we can live together 
 peaceable, can t we ? Took a big family row, though. 
 Families needs stirrin up now and then, I reckon." 
 
 He skinned a rabbit and cut off morsels of meat. 
 
 " Here, Susette, I m goin to fill your hide first, 
 cause you ve been so good since the row that I m 
 half beginnin to love you a little. There, that s it 
 eat. Does me good to see you eat, pore, sick 
 Susette!" 
 
 The wolf took the morsels from his hand and a 
 look almost tame came into her eyes. When she had 
 
22 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 eaten a rabbit, Antoine had a meal of raw flesh. Then 
 he sat down beside her and stroked her nose and neck 
 and flanks. There was an air of home about the 
 place. He was safe and sheltered, had a full stomach, 
 and there was a fellow creature near him that showed 
 kindness, altho it had been won with a beating. But 
 this man had long been accustomed to possessing by 
 violence, and he was satisfied. 
 
 " Susette," he said in a soft voice; " don t get mean 
 again when you get well. I want to live quiet and 
 like somethin that likes me oncet. If you ll be good, 
 I ll get you rabbits and antelope and birds, and you 
 won t need to hunt no more nor go about with your 
 belly flappin together. And I know how to make fire 
 somethin you don t know, wise as you be ; and I ll 
 keep you warm and pet you. 
 
 "Is it a bargain? All you need to do is just be 
 good, keep in your teeth out n my cheek. I ve been 
 lonesome always. I hain t got no people. Do you 
 know who your dad was, Susette? Neither do I. 
 Some French trader was mine, I guess. We re in the 
 same boat there. My mother was an Omaha. O 
 Susette, I know what it means to set a stranger in my 
 mother s lodge. Wagah peazzha! [no good 
 white man], that s what the Omahas called me ever 
 since I was a little feller. And the white men said 
 1 damn Injun. And where am I ? O, hangin onto 
 the edge of things, gettin ornry and nasty and bad ! 
 I ve stole horses and killed people and cussed fer 
 days, Susette. And I want to rest; I want to love 
 
THE ALIEN 23 
 
 somethin . Cabanne s men down at the post would 
 laugh to hear me sayin that. But I do. I want to 
 love somethin . Tried to oncet; her name was 
 Susette, jest like your n. She was a trader s daugh 
 ter a pretty French girl. That was before I got 
 bad. I talked sweet to her like I m a talkin to you, 
 and she kind of liked it. But the old man Lecroix 
 that was her dad he showed me the trail and he 
 says : * Go that way and go fast, you damn Injun ! 
 
 " I went, Susette, but I made him pay, I did. I 
 seen him on his back a-grinnin straight up at the 
 stars; and since then I hain t cared much. I killed 
 several after that, and I called em all Lecroix! 
 
 " Be a good girl, Susette, and I ll stick to you. I m 
 a good fighter, you know, and I m a good grub-hun 
 ter, too. I learned all that easy." 
 
 He continued caressing the wolf, and she licked his 
 hand when he stroked her muzzle. 
 
 Days passed; the winter deepened; the heavy snows 
 came. Antoine nursed his bruised companion back 
 to health. Through the bitter nights he kept a fire 
 burning at the entrance of the hole. The depth of 
 the snow made it improbable that any should learn 
 his whereabouts ; and by that time the news must have 
 spread from post to post that Antoine, the outlaw 
 half-breed, had drowned himself in the ice-fissure. 
 
 The man had used all his ammunition, and his six- 
 shooter had thus become useless. With the skill of 
 an Indian he wrought a bow and arrows. He made 
 snowshoes and continued to hunt, keeping the wolf 
 
24 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 in meat until she grew strong and fat with the unac 
 customed luxurious life. 
 
 Also she became very tame. During her weakness 
 the man had subdued her, and through the long 
 nights she lay nestled within the man s great arms and 
 slept. 
 
 When the snow became crusted, Antoine and 
 Susette went hunting together, she trotting at his heels 
 like a dog. To her he had come to be only an un 
 usually large wolf a masterful male, a good fighter, 
 strong to kill, a taker of his own. 
 
 One evening in late December, when the low moon 
 threw a shaft of cold silver into the mouth of the 
 lair, Antoine lay huddled in his furs, listening to the 
 long, dirge-like calls of the wolves wandering inward 
 from the vast pitiless night. Susette also listened, 
 sitting upon her haunches beside the man with her 
 ears pricked forward. When the far away cries of 
 her kinspeople arose into a compelling major sound, 
 dying away into the merest shadow of a pitiful minor, 
 she switched her tail uneasily, shuffled about nerv 
 ously, sniffing and whining. 
 
 Then she began pacing with an eager swing up and 
 down the place to the opening and back to the man, 
 sending forth the cry of kinship whenever she 
 reached the moonlit entrance. 
 
 "Night s cold, Susette," said Antoine; " tain t no 
 time fer huntin . Hain t I give you enough to eat? 
 Come here and snuggle up and let s sleep." 
 
 He caught the wolf and with main force held her 
 
THE ALIEN 25 
 
 down beside him. She snarled savagely and snapped 
 her jaws together, struggling out of his arms and 
 going to the opening where she cried out into the 
 frozen stillness. The answer of her kind floated back 
 in doleful chorus. 
 
 " Don t go ! " begged the man. " Susette, my 
 pretty Susette! I ll be so lonesome." 
 
 As the chorus died, the wolf gave a loud yelp and 
 rushed out into the night. A terrible rage seized An- 
 toine. He leaped from his furs and ran out after 
 the wolf. She fled with a rapid, swinging trot over 
 the scintillating snow toward the concourse of her 
 people. The man fled after, slipping, falling, getting 
 up, running, running, and ever the wolf widened the 
 glittering stretch of snow between them. To An- 
 toine, the ever-widening space of glinting coldness 
 vaguely symbolised the barrier that seemed growing 
 between him and his last companion. 
 
 " Susette, O, Susette ! " he cried at last, breathless 
 and exhausted. His cry was dirgelike, even as the 
 wolves ; thin and sharp and icelike the voice of the 
 old world-ache. 
 
 She had disappeared in the dusk of a ravine. An- 
 toine, huddled in the snows with his face upon his 
 knees, sobbed in the winter stillness. At last, with 
 slow and faltering step, he returned to his lair; and 
 for the first time in months he felt the throat-pang 
 of the alien. 
 
 He threw himself down upon the floor of the cave 
 and cursed the world. Then he cursed Susette. 
 
26 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " It s some other wolf! " he hissed. " Some other 
 grey dog that she s gone to see. O,, damn him ! damn 
 his grey hide! I ll kill her when she comes back! " 
 
 He took out his knife and began whetting it 
 viciously upon his boot. 
 
 " I ll cut her into strips and eat em ! Wasn t I 
 good to her? O, I ll cut her into strips! " 
 
 He whetted his knife for an hour, cursing the 
 while through his set teeth. At last his anger grew 
 into a foolish madness. He hurled himself upon the 
 bunch of furs beside him and imagined that they were 
 Susette. He set his teeth into the furs, he crushed 
 them with his hands, he tore at them with his nails. 
 Then in the impotence of his anger, he fell upon his 
 face and sobbed himself to sleep. 
 
 Strange visions passed before him. Again he 
 killed Lecroix, and saw the dead face grinning at the 
 stars. Again he sat in his mother s lodge and wept 
 because he was a stranger. Again he was fleeing, 
 fleeing, fleeing from a leather noose that hung above 
 him like a black cloud, and circled and lowered and 
 raised and lowered until it swooped down upon him 
 and closed about his neck. 
 
 With a yell of fright he awoke from his night 
 mare. His head throbbed, his mouth was parched. 
 At last day came in sneakingly through the opening 
 a dull, melancholy light; and with it came Susette, 
 sniffing, with the bristles of her neck erect. 
 
 " Susette! Susette! " cried the man joyfully. 
 
 He no longer thought of killing her. He seized 
 
THE ALIEN 27 
 
 her in his arms; he kissed her frost-whitened muzzle; 
 he caressed her; he called her a woman. She received 
 his caresses with disdain. Whereat the man re 
 doubled his acts of fondness. He fed her and petted 
 her as she ate; whereat the bristles on her neck fell. 
 She nosed him half fondly. 
 
 And Antoine, man-like, was glad again. He con 
 tented himself with touching the frayed hem of the 
 garment of Happiness. 
 
 He ate none that day. He said to himself, " I 
 won t hunt till it s all gone; she can have it all." He 
 was afraid to leave Susette. He was afraid to take 
 her with him again into the land of her own people. 
 Antoine was jealous. 
 
 All day he was kind to her with the pitiful kind 
 ness of a doting lover for his unfaithful mistress. 
 
 That night she consented to lie within his arms, 
 and Antoine cried softly as he whispered into her 
 ear: " Susette, I hain t a goin to be jealous no more. 
 You ve been a bad girl, Susette. Don t do it again. 
 I won t be mean less n you let him come skulkin 
 round here, damn his grey hide ! But O, Susette " 
 his voice was like a spoken pang " I wisht I wisht 
 I was that other wolf ! " 
 
 The next morning Antoine did not get up. He 
 felt sore and exhausted. By evening his heart was 
 beating like a hammer. His head ached and swam; 
 his burning eyes saw strange, uncertain visions. 
 
 " Susette," he called, " I hain t quite right; come 
 here and let me touch you again." 
 
28 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Night was falling and Susette sat sullenly apart, 
 listening for the call of her people. She did not go 
 to him. All night the man tossed and raved. After 
 a lingering age of delirious wanderings, dizzy flights 
 from huge pitiless pursuers, he became conscious of 
 the daylight. He raised his head feebly and looked 
 about the den. Susette was gone. A fury of jealousy 
 again seized Antoine. She had gone to that other 
 wolf he felt certain of that. He tried to arise, but 
 the fever had weakened him so that he lay impotently, 
 torn alternately with anger and longing. 
 
 Suddenly a frost-whitened snout was thrust in at 
 the opening. It was Susette. The man was too 
 weak to cry out his joy, but his eyes filled with a soft 
 light. 
 
 Susette entered sniffing strangely, whining and 
 switching her tail as she came. At her heels followed 
 another grey wolf a male, larger-boned, lanker, 
 with a more powerful snout. He whined and moved 
 his tail nervously at sight of the man. 
 
 Antoine lay staring impotently upon the intruder. 
 " So that s him," thought the man; " I wisht I could 
 get up." 
 
 A delirious anger shook him ; he struggled to arise, 
 but could not. " O God," he moaned; it was an un 
 usual thing for this man to say the word so; " O God, 
 please le me get up and fight ! " 
 
 A harsh growl stopped him. The grey intruder 
 approached him with a rapid, sinuous movement of 
 the tail. His jaws grinned hideously with long sharp 
 
THE ALIEN 29 
 
 teeth displayed. The rage of hunger was in his eyes 
 fixed steadily upon the sick man. 
 
 Antoine stared steadily into the glaring eyes of his 
 wolfish rival, already crouching for the spring. 
 
 On a sudden, a strange exhilaration came over the 
 man. He seemed drinking in the essence of life from 
 the pitiless stare of his adversary. His great limbs, 
 seeming devitalised but a moment before, now tin 
 gled to their extremities with a sudden surging of the 
 wine of life. His eyes, which the fever had burned 
 into the dulness of ashes, flamed suddenly again with 
 the eager lust of fight. 
 
 He raised himself upon his haunches, beast-like, 
 and with the lifting of a sneering lip that disclosed his 
 grinding teeth, he gave a cry that was both a snarl 
 and a sob. In that moment, these many centuries 
 of artificial life were as a vanished dream. From the 
 long-slumbering dust of the prehistoric cave-man 
 came a giant spirit to steel the sinews of its far re 
 moved and weaker kin. 
 
 Antoine met the impetuous spring of the wolf with 
 the downward blow of a fist, and sprang whining 
 upon his momentarily worsted foe. Never before 
 had he fought in all his bitter pariah life as now he 
 fought for the possession of his last companion. 
 
 His antagonist was larger than Susette, the sur 
 vivor of many moonlit battles to the death in the 
 frozen, foodless wilderness of hills. 
 
 Antoine struggled not as a man ; he was now merely 
 the good, glorious, fighting beast masterful, primi- 
 
30 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 tive, the keeper of his own. Lacerated with the snap 
 ping of powerful jaws, bleeding from his face and 
 hands, the man felt that he was winning. With a 
 whining cry, less than half human, he succeeded in 
 fixing his left hand upon the hairy throat, crushed 
 the wolf down upon its back, and with prodigious 
 strength, began pressing the fingers of his right hand 
 in between the protruding lower ribs. He would tear 
 them out ! He would thrust his hand in among the 
 vitals of his foe ! 
 
 All the while Susette, whining and switching her 
 tail, watched with glowing eyes the struggle of the 
 males, and waited for the proof of the master. 
 
 At this juncture she arose with a nervous, threat 
 ening swaying of the head, approached the two cau 
 tiously, then hurled herself into the encounter. She 
 leaped with a savage yelp upon him who had long 
 been her master. 
 
 The man s grip relaxed. He fell back and threw 
 out his arms in which once more the weakness of 
 the fever came. 
 
 " Susette 1" he gasped; "I was good to you; 
 I " 
 
 His voice was choked into a wheeze. Susette had 
 gripped him by the throat, and the two were upon 
 him. 
 
 She had gone back to the ways of her kind and 
 the man was an alien. 
 
II 
 
 THE LOOK IN THE FACE 
 
 IT was after one of the Saturday night feasts at 
 No-Teeth Lodge that I drew my old friend, 
 Half-a-Day, to one side where the shadows 
 were not broken by the firelight. 
 
 " Tell me another story, Half-a-Day," I said. 
 
 He grunted and puffed at his pipe in silence. 
 
 " Have I not given much cow meat to the feast 
 and did I not throw silver on the drums? " 
 
 " Ah," he assented. 
 
 " Then I wish to hear a story." 
 
 " You are my friend," he began with majestic de 
 liberation, speaking in his own tongue ; " for we 
 have eaten meat together from the same kettle and 
 looked upon each other through the pipe smoke. It 
 will therefore make me glad to tell you a story about 
 buffalo meat " 
 
 " Ah, about a hunt?" 
 
 " And a me-zhinga [girl] " 
 
 "Oh, a love story!" 
 
 " And a man whom I wished to kill." 
 
 " Good ! And did you kill him ? " 
 
 " My brother is like all his white brothers, who 
 leap at things. Never will they wait. If I said yes 
 or no, then would I have no story." 
 
 31 
 
32 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 ;< Then give me a puff at the pipe, Half-a-Day, and 
 I will be patient." 
 
 Half-a-Day gave me the pipe and began, with eyes 
 staring through the fire and far away down the long 
 trail that leads back to youth. 
 
 " Many winters and summers ago I was a young 
 man ; now I am slow when I walk and my head looks 
 much to the ground. But I remember, and now again 
 I am young for a little while. I can smell the fires 
 in the evening that roared upward then, even tho they 
 are cold these many moons and their ashes scattered. 
 And I can see the face of Paezha [flower], the one 
 daughter of Douba Mona, for my eyes are young too. 
 And Douba Mona was a great man. 
 
 " Paezha was not so big as the other squaws, and 
 could never be so big, because she was not made for 
 building tepees and bringing wood and water. She 
 was little and thin and good to see like some of your 
 white sisters, and there was no face in the village of 
 my people like her face. Her feet touched the ground 
 with a light touch like a little wind from the south; 
 her body bent easily like a willow; I think her eyes 
 were like stars." 
 
 I smiled here, because the simile has become so 
 trite among us white lovers. But Half-a-Day saw 
 me not; he looked down the long trail that leads back 
 to youth, leading through and beyond the fire. 
 
 " And I looked upon her face until I could see 
 nothing else not the sunrise nor the sunset nor the 
 moon and stars. Her face became a medicine face to 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 33 
 
 me; because I was a young man and it was good to 
 see her. And also, I was a poor young man; my 
 father had few ponies, and her father had as many as 
 one could see with a big look. 
 
 " But I was strong and proud and in the long 
 nights I dreamed of Paezha, till one day I said : I 
 will have her and I will fight all the braves in all the 
 villages before I will give her up. Then afterwards 
 I will get many ponies like her father. 
 
 " So one evening when the meat boiled over the 
 fires, I went down to the big spring and hid in the 
 grass, for it was the habit of Paezha to bring cold 
 water to her father in the evenings, carrying it in a 
 little kettle no bigger than your head covering, for 
 she was not big. 
 
 " And I lay waiting. I could not hear the bugs 
 nor the running of the spring water nor the wind in 
 the willows, because my heart sang so loud. 
 
 " And I heard a step and it was Paezha. She 
 leaned over the spring, and looked down; then there 
 were two Paezhas, so my wish for her was doubled 
 and had the strength of two wishes. 
 
 " I arose from the grass. She looked upon me 
 and fear came into her eyes; for there was that in 
 my face which wished to conquer, and I was very 
 strong. Like the tae-chuga [antelope] she leaped 
 and ran with wind-feet down the valley. I was with 
 out breath when I caught her, and I lifted her with 
 arms too strong, for she cried." 
 
 Half-a-Day reached toward me for the pipe and 
 
34 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 puffed strongly. His eyes were masterful, with the 
 world-old spirit of the conquering male in them. 
 
 " Then as I held her, I looked upon her face and 
 saw what I had never seen before : a look in the face 
 that was sad and weak and frightened, begging for 
 pity. Only it was not all that; it was shining like 
 the sun through a cloud, and it was stronger than I, 
 for I became weak and could hold her no longer. A 
 little while she looked with wide eyes upon me; and 
 then I saw what makes the squaws break their backs 
 carrying wood and water and zhinga zhingas 
 [babies] ; also what makes men fight and do great 
 deeds that are not selfish. 
 
 " Then she ran from me and I fell upon my face 
 and cried like a zhinga zhinga at the back of a squaw 
 I know not why." 
 
 Half-a-Day puffed hard at his pipe, then sighing 
 handed it to me. 
 
 " Have you seen that look in the face, White 
 Brother?" he said, staring upon me with eyes that 
 mastered me. 
 
 " I am very young," I answered. 
 
 " But when you see it, it will make you old," con 
 tinued Half-a-Day; u for when I arose and went back 
 to the village I was old and nothing was the same. 
 From that time I could look into the eyes of the 
 biggest brave without trembling, for I was a man and 
 I had seen the look. 
 
 " And it was in the time when the sunflowers die, 
 the time for the hunting of bison. So the whole tribe 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 35 
 
 made ready for the hunt. One morning we rode out 
 of the village on the bison trail; and we were so 
 many that the foremost were lost in the hills when 
 the last left the village. And we all sang, but the 
 ponies neighed at the lonesome lodges, for they were 
 leaving home. 
 
 " Many days we travelled toward the evenings, 
 and there was song in me even when I did not sing; 
 for always I rode near Paezha, who rode in a blanket 
 swung on poles between two ponies, for she was the 
 daughter of a rich man. And I spoke gentle words 
 to her, and she smiled because she had seen my 
 weakness in the valley of the big spring. Also I 
 picked flowers for her, and she took them. 
 
 " But one day Black Dog rode on the other side 
 of her and spoke soft words. And a strange look was 
 on the face of Paezha, but not the look I had seen. 
 So I drove away the bitterness of my heart and spoke 
 good words to Black Dog. But he was sullen, and 
 also he was better to look upon than I. I can say 
 this now, for I have felt the winds of many winters. 
 
 " Many sleeps we rode toward the places of the 
 evening. The moon was thin and small and bent like 
 a child s bow when we started, and it hung low above 
 the sunset. And as we travelled it grew bigger, ever 
 farther toward the place of morning, until it was like 
 a white sun. Then at last it came forth no more, but 
 rested in its black tepee after its steep trail. 
 
 " And all the while we strained our eyes from many 
 lonesome hilltops, but saw no bison. Scarcer and 
 
36 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 scarcer became the food, for the summer had been 
 a summer of fighting; we had conquered and feasted 
 much, hunted little. 
 
 " So it happened that we who were strong took less 
 meat that the weaker might live until we found the 
 bison. And all the time the strength of Paezha s 
 face grew upon me, so that I divided my meat with 
 her. It made me sing to see her eat. 
 
 " One day she said to me : * Why do you sing, 
 Half-a-Day, when the people are sad? And I said: 
 1 1 sing because I am empty. And Black Dog, who 
 rode upon the other side, he did not sing. So she said 
 to him : Why do you not sing, Black Dog ? Is it 
 because we do not find the bison ? And Black Dog 
 said: I do not sing because I am empty. 
 
 " All day I was afraid that Paezha had judged 
 between us, seeing me so light of thought and deed. 
 
 " One evening we stopped for the night and there 
 was not enough meat left to keep us three sleeps 
 longer. The squaws did not sing as they pitched the 
 tepees. They were empty, the braves were empty, 
 and the zhinga zhingas whined like little baby wolves 
 at their mothers backs, for the milk they drank was 
 thin milk. No one spoke. The fires boomed up and 
 made the hills sound as with the bellowing of bulls, 
 and the sound mocked us. The dark came down ; we 
 sat about the fires but we did not speak. We groaned, 
 for we were very empty, and we could not eat until 
 we had slept. Once every sleep we ate, and we had 
 eaten once. 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 37 
 
 " That night the wise old men gathered together 
 in the tepee of the chiefs and sang medicine songs 
 that Wakunda [God] might hear and see our suf 
 fering; then might he send us the bison. 
 
 " I heard the songs and I felt a great strength grow 
 up out of my emptiness. Then I said : I will go 
 to the fathers and they will send me in search of the 
 bison ; and I will find the bison for Paezha that she 
 may not starve. I had forgotten myself and my 
 people. I knew only Paezha, for that day I had 
 heard her moan, having nothing more to give. 
 
 " And I went to the big tepee. I stood amongst 
 the fathers and lifted a strong voice in spite of my 
 emptiness : * Give me a swift pony and a little meat 
 and I will find the bison ! 
 
 " And the old men sighed as they looked upon me. 
 And Douba Mona, her father, being one of the wise 
 men, said : I see a light in his eye and hear a 
 strength in his voice. Give him the swift pony and 
 the little meat. If he finds the bison, then shall he 
 have Paezha, for well I see that there is something 
 between them. Also he shall have many ponies; I 
 have many. 
 
 " And these words made me full as though I had 
 sat at a feast. 
 
 " So the next morning I took the swift pony and 
 the little meat and galloped toward the evening. The 
 people did not take the trail that day, for toil makes 
 hunger. 
 
 " Two sleeps I rode, singing songs and dreaming 
 
38 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 dreams of Paezha. And on the evening of the third 
 sunlight I stopped upon a hill, and turned my pony 
 loose to feed. I was sick and weak because my emp 
 tiness had come back upon me and I had not yet found 
 the bison. I fell upon my face and moaned, and my 
 emptiness sent me to sleep. 
 
 ; When I awoke, someone sat beside me and it 
 was Black Dog. He breathed soft words. * I have 
 come to watch over Half-a-Day, he said, because I 
 am older and a bigger man. 
 
 " I spoke not a word, but my heart was warm to 
 ward Black Dog, for my dreams of Paezha had made 
 me kind. 
 
 " Well I know/ he said, and his voice was soft as 
 a woman s; l well I know what Half-a-Day dreams 
 about. And I have come to watch over him that his 
 dream may come true. 
 
 " Then being a young man and full of kindness, I 
 told Black Dog of the look I had seen in the face of 
 Paezha. And he bit his lips and made a sound far 
 down in his throat that was not pleasant to hear. And 
 I fell to sleep wondering much. 
 
 " When I awoke, the ponies were gone, the meat 
 was gone, Black Dog was gone. I grew strong as a 
 bear. I shrieked into the stillness ! I shook my fists 
 at the sun ! I cursed Black Dog ! I stumbled on 
 over the hills and valleys, shouting, singing, hurling 
 big words of little meaning into the yellow day. 
 
 " Before night came I found the body of a dead 
 wolf, and I fell upon it like a crow. I tore its flesh 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 39 
 
 with my teeth. I called it Black Dog. I ate much. 
 It smelled bad. I found a little stream and drank 
 much. It was almost lost in the mud. I slept and 
 dreamed of Paezha. I awoke, and it was day again. 
 I found the dead wolf again. I ate. Then I 
 was stronger and I went on into the empty yellow 
 prairie. 
 
 " Toward evening I heard a thundering, yet saw 
 no cloud. It was the dry time. Still it thundered, 
 thundered yet no cloud. I ran to the top of a hill 
 and gazed. 
 
 "Bison! Bison! The prairie was full of bison, 
 and they were feeding slowly toward the camp of my 
 people. 
 
 " I turned, I ran ! I did not make a sound, tho I 
 wished to cry out. I needed all my strength for run 
 ning, for I had no pony. I ran, ran, ran. I fell, I 
 got up, I fell. Night came; I walked. Morning 
 came; still I walked. Night came; I stumbled. And 
 in the morning I was creeping. 
 
 " I do not know when I reached the camp of my 
 people, I remember only a shouting and a sudden 
 moving of the tribe. And then, after many bad 
 dreams, I was awake again and the people were 
 feasting. They had found the bison. 
 
 " Then, when we were on the home trail, I learned 
 of the treachery of Black Dog. He had told my 
 people how he had found Half-a-Day dead upon the 
 prairie, but was too weak to bring him back. And 
 the people believed for a time. And Black Dog spoke 
 
40 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 soft words to Paezha, brave words to Douba Mona, 
 until I was almost forgotten. 
 
 " But now I was a great man among my people, 
 and Black Dog could not raise his head, for he had 
 seen hate in the people s eyes. 
 
 " And in the time of the first frosts we reached our 
 village and Paezha became my squaw. Also I got 
 the ponies." 
 
 Here Half-a-Day paused to fill his pipe. 
 
 " It is a good story, Half-a-Day," I said. Haif 
 a-Day lit his pipe, stared long into the glow of the 
 embers, for the fires had fallen, and sighed. 
 
 " I have not spoken yet," he said; " for one day in 
 the time of the first snow, Paezha lay dead in my 
 lodge, and my breast ached. Black Dog had killed 
 her at the big spring. At the same place where I had 
 first seen the look, there he killed her. 
 
 " I remember that I sat beside her two sleeps and 
 cried like a zhinga zhinga. And my friends came to 
 me, whispering bitter words into my ears. l Kill 
 Black Dog, they said. And I said: * Bring him here 
 to me, and I will kill him ; my legs will not carry me. 
 
 " But the fathers of the council would not have it 
 so. And when they had buried her on the hill above 
 the village, I awoke as from a long sleep, a very long 
 sleep, and I was full of hate. They kept me in my 
 lodge. They would not let me kill. I wished to kill ! 
 I wished to tear him as Itore the stinking wolf with 
 my teeth ! / wished to kill! " 
 
 Half-a-Day had arisen to his feet, his fists clenched, 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 41 
 
 his eyes shining with a cold light. He made a tragic 
 figure in the dull, blue glow of the embers. 
 
 " Come, Half-a-Day," I said, " it is long passed, 
 and now it is only a story." 
 
 " It is more than a story! " he said. " I lived it. 
 I wished to kill!" 
 
 He sat down again, and a softer light came into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " And the time came," he went on with a weary 
 voice, " when Black Dog should be cast forth from 
 the tribe, according to the old custom. I said, I will 
 follow Black Dog, and I will see him die. And he 
 was cast forth. I followed, and it was very cold. 
 The snow whined under my feet, and I followed in 
 the night. 
 
 " But Black Dog did not know I followed. I was 
 ever near him like a shadow. I did not sleep; I 
 watched Black Dog. I meant to see him die. 
 
 " In his first sleep I crept upon him. I stole his 
 meat; I stole his weapons. Now he would die, and 
 I would be there to see. I would laugh, I would sing 
 while he died. 
 
 " In the cold, pale morning I lay huddled in a 
 clump of sage and I saw him get up, look for his meat 
 and weapons, then stagger away into the lonesome 
 places of the snow. And I sang a low song to myself. 
 The time would come when I would see Black Dog 
 die. I did not feel the cold; I did not grow weary; 
 I was never hungry. And in the evenings I was ever 
 near enough to hear him groan as he wrapped himself 
 
42 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 in his blankets. Often I crept up to him and looked 
 upon his face in the light of the stars, and I saw my 
 time coming, for his face was thinner and not so good 
 to look upon as in the time when the sunflowers died. 
 
 " I could have killed him, but then he could not 
 have heard me sing, he could not have heard me 
 laugh. So I waited and followed and watched. I ate 
 my meat raw that Black Dog might not see my fire. 
 Also I watched to see that he found nothing to eat; 
 and he found nothing. 
 
 ** One day I lay upon the summit of a hill and saw 
 him totter in the valley. Then I could be quiet no 
 longer. I raised my voice and shouted : Fall, Black 
 Dog! Even so Half-a-Day fell when Black Dog 
 stole his meat and his pony ! 
 
 " And I saw him get up and stare about, for I was 
 hidden. Then his voice came up to me over the snow ; 
 it was a thin voice : 1 1 know you, Half-a-Day ! Come 
 and kill me ! 
 
 " Half-a-Day never killed a sick man nor a 
 squaw, I shouted, and then I laughed a cold, bitter 
 laugh. Then Black Dog shook his fists at the four 
 corners of the sky and stumbled off into the hills, and 
 I followed. Now my time was very near, for Black 
 Dog felt my nearness and he knew that he would die 
 and I would see him. 
 
 " And one evening my time came. Black Dog was 
 in the valley by a frozen stream, and he fell upon his 
 face, sending forth a thin cry as he fell thin and ice- 
 like. He did not get up. He lay very still. 
 
THE LOOK IN THE FACE 43 
 
 " I ran down to where he lay and I laughed, 
 laughed, laughed. I heard him groan. I rolled him 
 over on his back and looked upon his face. 
 
 " I wish I had not looked upon his face ! 
 
 " He opened his eyes and they were very dim and 
 sunken. His face was sharp. I sat down beside him. 
 I said, * Now die, and I will sing about it. 
 
 " Then his face changed. It became a squaw s 
 face and it had the look! a look that was sad and 
 weak and frightened and begging for pity. And it 
 seemed to me that it was not the face of Black Dog 
 any more. // had the look! I had seen it in the face 
 of Paezha by the spring! 
 
 " Now since I have many winters behind me, I 
 wonder if it was not a coward s face; but then it was 
 not so. I grew soft. There was a great springtime 
 in my breast. The ice was breaking up. I wrapped 
 my blankets about him. I gave him meat. He stared 
 at me and ate like a wolf. I spoke soft words. I 
 made a fire from the brush that was on the frozen 
 stream. I warmed him and he grew stronger. All 
 night I watched him and in the morning I said: 
 Take my bow and arrows, Black Dog ; I wish to die. 
 Go on and live. For I had lost the wish to kill; I 
 only wished to die. And he said no word; but his 
 eyes were changed. 
 
 " I staggered away on the back trail. I had no 
 meat, I had no blankets, I had no weapons. I meant 
 to die. 
 
 " But I did not die. When I lay down at night, 
 
44 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 worn-out and half frozen, someone wrapped blankets 
 about me and built a fire by me. In the mornings I 
 found food beside me. And so it was for many 
 sleeps until at last I came to the village of my peo 
 ple, broken, caring for nothing. And I was thin, my 
 face was sharp, my eyes were sunken, my step was 
 slow. 
 
 " And the people looked upon me with wonder, 
 saying : Half-a-Day has come back from killing 
 Black Dog. 
 
 " But the truth was different." 
 
 When Half-a-Day had finished, he stared long into 
 the fire without speaking. 
 
 " Do you think Black Dog was all a coward? " I 
 asked at length. " Perhaps he only loved too much." 
 
 " I do not know," said Half-a-Day; " I only know 
 sometimes I wish I had not looked upon his face." 
 
Ill 
 
 FEATHER FOR FEATHER 
 
 TUM-UM-UM, tum-um-um, went the 
 drums beaten by the hands of the old men 
 too old for wars, but now grown mo 
 mentarily youthful with the victory of the young 
 men who were returning from battle. 
 
 Tum-um-um, tum-um-um! So sang the drums 
 great, glad buckskin drums, exultant beneath the 
 staccato blows of the old men s drumsticks. Tum-um- 
 um, tum-um-um ! Now the women, dressed in their 
 gayest garments of dyed buckskin, radiant in beads, 
 with the spirit of song upon their painted faces, came 
 forth in a long file from a lodge and approached the 
 centre of the open space about which were grouped 
 the mud lodges of the village. 
 
 There, in the centre, sat the old men. The drums 
 were singing a glad song, in sullen tones, in this hour 
 of victory, for a runner, breathless with his speed, 
 had brought the good news when the sun was half 
 way down the sky, and now the slowly setting sun 
 was blazing on the evening hills. 
 
 Soon the whole victorious band, fresh from their 
 fight with the Sioux, would come over the hills like 
 an eager, dusty wind, clamorous with glad tongues 
 
 45 
 
46 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 and thunderous with the driven hoofs of captured 
 ponies. 
 
 So the drums sang and the women came forth and 
 circled about them, peering beneath hands raised 
 browward, into the deepening shadows of the valley 
 down which the band would sweep. 
 
 They swelled the song of victory, the song of wel 
 come to the victors, and the look of welcome was 
 already upon their faces as they searched the deepen 
 ing shadows. 
 
 There came a rumble over the hills as of a hidden 
 storm in time of drouth, thundering mockingly in the 
 rainless air. The drummers lifted their sticks with 
 trembling hands and listened with one accord they 
 all listened for the shouts and the hoof beats. 
 
 Now the faint treble of distant shouting pierced 
 the growing rumble of the thunder. It was the 
 braves ! They were returning with much glory and 
 many ponies. The drumsticks fell snarlingly upon 
 the taut buckskin, but the sound seemed only a whis 
 per, for the entire village was shouting with a tumult 
 that made the grazing ponies snort upon the hillsides 
 and gallop away with ears pricked wonderingly. 
 
 " They come ! They come ! " 
 
 The villagers thronged upon that side of the vil 
 lage that looked toward the hills from whence the 
 thunder deepened. A dust cloud gathered behind the 
 hills. It grew until it caught the horizontal sunlight 
 and seemed a scintillating tower of victory. Sud 
 denly the hill above the valley was thronged with 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 47 
 
 mounted braves, waving their weapons above their 
 heads and shouting, and a sunlit cloud of glory seemed 
 about them. 
 
 The band swept down the hillside and down the 
 valley, and the dust cloud thickened under the im 
 petuous hoofs that beat the parched and yellow prai 
 rie. When they drew near the opening in the circle 
 of lodges, the foremost hurled his panting pony back 
 upon its haunches and the others reared and halted 
 behind, champing at the restraining thongs. 
 
 " A-ho I " shouted the foremost, holding his 
 weapons above his head. " We come from the 
 Sioux ! We have many ponies and also scalp-locks ! 
 Sing ! For we have fought a good fight and we are 
 not ashamed 1 " 
 
 A great shout went up from the village, and the 
 drums snarled. Slowly, majestically, the circle of 
 women began moving about the drums, keeping time 
 to the rhythmic beats with a sideward shuffling of 
 their feet in the dust. In a monotonous minor key 
 the singing of the women began at first like the 
 crooning of an Indian mother to a restless child when 
 the camp fires burn blue, and all the braves are snor 
 ing in the dark. 
 
 Then it rose into the mournful wail of a wife 
 looking upon a dead face a wordless, eloquent song. 
 Then, with a burst, it rose into a treble cry, and 
 words became dimly recognisable amid the ecstasy. 
 
 " We come, we come, and we are not ashamed! " 
 sang the women to the snarling of the drums. " Let 
 
48 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the fires roar and the bison meat be cooked, for we 
 have fought, and now we wish to eat ! 
 
 " Let the women dance and sing that we may be 
 glad after our fighting ! A-ho ! A-ho ! We travelled 
 far one sleep, two sleeps, three sleeps, but we slum 
 bered not ! We came upon our enemies. They were 
 hidden in the grass like badgers. They were dressed 
 in yellow grass that they might hide. We saw them 
 and we shouted with joy, for we were not afraid ! The 
 enemy trembled like wolves who have come to the 
 end of the ravine and the hunters follow behind ! " 
 
 As the women sang, shuffling about the circle, the 
 braves rode in single file into the enclosure of the 
 village and formed a circle about the dance. 
 
 " I saw a big man among my enemies," sang the 
 women, for so their song ran. " He was strong as 
 a bear and terrible as an elk. His head was proud 
 with eagle feathers, for many men had he killed. I 
 did not tremble when he rushed at me; I raised my 
 club and struck him, and he fell with his eagle 
 feathers. He whimpered like an old woman when 
 she becomes a child again. He said, 1 1 have many 
 ponies for you, and my children will cry if I do not 
 go back. Spare me ! 5 But behold ! I have his scalp 
 lock!" 
 
 " His scalp lock! His scalp lock! " shouted the 
 braves, as the words of the song were drowned again 
 in the minor drone that followed the snarl of the 
 drums. And they waved scalp locks above their heads 
 the locks of the fallen Sioux. 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 49 
 
 Out of the droning the song of the women grew 
 again. It became more ecstatic, running the gamut 
 of human passion from the shrill shriek of defiance 
 to the mournful wail for those who had fallen in the 
 battle. And then the shuffling stopped; the song died 
 away into a drone and ceased, like the song of a locust 
 at the end of a sultry evening. The drums snarled 
 no more, a great silence fell, the sun had sunk beneath 
 the hills. 
 
 Then, in the silence and the shadows of the even 
 ing, one came forth from among the circle of braves, 
 and, with a slow, majestic bending of the knees, 
 danced in a circle about the women and the drums, 
 that began again as an accompaniment to the song 
 that he would sing. 
 
 Round and round the circle he danced, improvising 
 a song to the rhythm of the drums, in which he sang 
 his prowess, and the whole village shouted when he 
 reached the end of his song, for he told of a good 
 fight and a strong arm, and he had been great in 
 battle. 
 
 Then, amid the shouting, another came forth to 
 dance and sing, for he too had done great things. 
 It was White Cloud, and he was great among his 
 people. Round and round the circle he danced to the 
 tune of the drums, dodging imaginary arrows, leap 
 ing upon imaginary foes, striking huge blows at the 
 heads of warriors hidden in the shadow. 
 
 " See ! " he shouted in his song, and his voice was 
 loud and masterful, for a murmur of praise had 
 
50 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 passed among the people. " See ! White Cloud 
 brings the scalp lock of a chief. He took it alone 
 with his strong hand. The scalp lock of a big Sioux 
 chief! Who has done a greater deed than White 
 Cloud? Then let the old men place the eagle feather 
 in his hair that he may be known among his 
 people." 
 
 Once again the dancing stopped and the drums 
 ceased their droning. White Cloud approached the 
 old men, who slowly placed the eagle feather in his 
 hair. 
 
 But one among the assembled braves did not give 
 his voice to the shout that ensued. 
 
 His gaze narrowed with hatred as he looked upon 
 White Cloud, and his body trembled as a strong tree 
 that stands alone in the path of a tempest. 
 
 Then as White Cloud strode proudly to the inner 
 rim of the circle of braves, with the tall eagle feather 
 in his hair, another came forth bearing with him 
 his bow and his arrows. It was he who had found no 
 voice in which to celebrate White Cloud s valour. 
 
 He was tall and sinewy, and he had the clear-cut, 
 cruel face of a hawk, now dark with a darkness 
 deeper than the shadow of the evening. It was Lit 
 tle Weasel. 
 
 Erect, quivering like a strong bow in the clutch of 
 a mighty warrior, he walked into the open space, and 
 the drums once more began their wailing. But Little 
 Weasel raised one trembling hand and commanded 
 silence. 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 51 
 
 " Fathers," he said, and his voice was low, vibrant 
 with the growl of a wounded beast in it, " Little 
 Weasel needs no drums to help him fill the stillness." 
 
 The people bent forward, hushed, because there 
 was something deeper than shadow in the face of 
 Little Weasel as he turned his hawk s gaze upon the 
 bowed head of White Cloud. 
 
 " Little Weasel has words to utter, but they are 
 not song words nor dance words. Let the women 
 and cowards sing and dance ! " 
 
 Still the head of White Cloud was bowed, and 
 Little Weasel laughed a strange laugh. 
 
 " Who took the scalplock of the big Sioux chief? " 
 shouted Little Weasel. " I, Little Weasel, took it! 
 One sleep, two sleeps, I kept it close beside me; for 
 I am a young man and I wanted to hear the shouts of 
 my people. But in the third sleep a great heaviness 
 came upon me, and when I awoke my Sioux scalp lock 
 had been stolen from me. Now I know the badger 
 who crept upon me in my heaviness and stole my 
 honour from me. Look ! You have placed the eagle 
 feather in his hair! " 
 
 In the hush that filled that shadowed place naught 
 but the heavy breathing of the people was heard. 
 Little Weasel fitted a feathered arrow to his bow. 
 
 " See ! " he cried. u I do not cry about my stolen 
 feather. I give another! " 
 
 The bow-thong twanged, the arrow sang, and 
 lodged deep in White Cloud s breast. 
 
 " Let White Cloud wear that feather in his breast 
 
52 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 so that the black spirits will know him ! For look I 
 Already he is among them ! " 
 
 White Cloud had fallen upon his face. Little 
 Weasel dropped his bow upon the ground, and, rais 
 ing his hands above his head, he shouted into 
 the stillness : " Fathers, I have given feather for 
 feather!" 
 
 Then a great cry broke from the assembled braves 
 and the women shrieked. But Little Weasel shoul 
 dered his way through the throng and went to his 
 lodge, laughing bitterly. 
 
 That evening the fires of the feast did not roar 
 upward into the night. There was no song; there 
 was no babble of glad voices; there was no bubbling 
 of kettle nor scent of meat. 
 
 For a member of the tribe had been murdered by 
 a tribesman, and the murderer, according to an an 
 cient custom, would be driven forth that night from 
 the circle of the lodges into the prairie. And the 
 people sat speechless at the dark doors of their lodges 
 awaiting the signal. 
 
 After a long and wordless waiting in the dark, the 
 people saw the door-flap of the big council lodge 
 swing open, and they held their breaths, for the time 
 of the casting forth had come. 
 
 Through the hush of the starlit night came Little 
 Weasel, pacing slowly about the circle of the village, 
 and the fathers of the council, slow with age, fol 
 lowed behind. 
 
 Three times the outcast made the rounds, and when 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 53 
 
 he began the fourth and last circle (for four is a 
 medicine number) , the old men who followed raised 
 their faces to the starlit sky and breathed these 
 words into the quiet: 
 
 " Let the people look upon Little Weasel, our 
 brother, for he has killed a brother and must suffer. 
 Four times shall the bears bring forth their cubs; 
 four times shall the lone goose fly; four times shall 
 the frogs sing in the valleys; four times shall the 
 sunflowers grow ; and he must wander, wander. Then 
 shall Little Weasel return and his deed shall be for 
 gotten. W ah-hoo-ha-a-a-af " 
 
 Then when Little Weasel came the fourth time to 
 the opening in the circle of lodges, looking toward 
 the place of sunrise, he saw one standing in the dark 
 who held a pony by a thong. And Little Weasel 
 leaped upon the pony, laughed a loud, unpleasant 
 laugh, and urged it southward into the night. 
 
 Throughout the night the people in the village 
 heard strange sounds. For at times somewhere in 
 the darkness of the hills, something laughed a loud, 
 unmirthful laugh. 
 
 " Do you hear it?" the people whispered. "It 
 is a wolf. For sometimes in the lonesome nights they 
 laugh so." But the people muffled their ears in their 
 blankets, for it is not good to hear a wolf laugh 
 almost like a man. 
 
 All night long Little Weasel wandered upon the 
 hills, holding his grazing pony and looking down 
 upon the starlit village of his people. He laughed 
 
54 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 loudly at times, for he was not one of those who 
 sadden with trouble. 
 
 "How can I get revenge upon my people?" he 
 asked himself. And as yet he could not answer. 
 
 The pale dawn found him sitting upon the hills. 
 Then he arose and mounted his pony and the three 
 went southward the pony, the man, and the question. 
 
 A light wind blew upon his back. 
 
 " How can I get revenge upon my people?" he 
 sang aloud in endless variation until his question wove 
 itself into a song a battle song, for Little Weasel 
 had not eaten, and hunger feeds anger. But the 
 light wind sighing at his back made no answer. 
 
 " I will go to the country of the Pawnees and make 
 them angry with my people," he said to himself, and 
 this seemed the answer to his question until the sun 
 had reached its highest in the sky and the wind had 
 fallen and the yellow prairie had become parched and 
 bare. 
 
 In the afternoon he stopped in the glare of the sun 
 and held one wet finger above his head that he might 
 learn the source of the wind. 
 
 There was a faint breath from the south. As he 
 stood it increased, coming in little puffs, hot and fit 
 ful and dry. Suddenly it came with a great puff and 
 boomed in the arid gulches. 
 
 Little Weasel shouted with joy. 
 
 He had heard his answer in the booming of the 
 sudden wind. He dismounted, and, with a flint and 
 some dry grass, lit a little fire. 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 55 
 
 The great wind fed it and it grew. Then Little 
 Weasel collected a bunch of grass, lit it and rapidly 
 set fire to the dry prairie. 
 
 Long, yellow flames leaped up from the sun-cured 
 buffalo-grass, howled in the wind that grew stronger 
 and stronger, and raced northward toward the valley 
 where the circled lodges of the Omahas lay. 
 
 " Now I will go back," said Little Weasel, " and 
 the fire shall go with me." He kicked his pony in 
 the ribs and pointed its head northward. The wave 
 of flame preceded him, skimming the surface of the 
 grass with great leaps, gaining strength and fleet- 
 ness as the dry wind lashed it from behind. 
 
 " A ha-ha-he-ha-ha-ha-ha! " sang Little Weasel, 
 and the pony, straining its wiry limbs to keep pace 
 with the yellow giant that ran before, wheezed and 
 coughed an accompaniment to the song, for the ashes 
 were in his nostrils. 
 
 Over hills, through valleys, across gulches the 
 pony ran, with the wall of flame ever a strong 
 man s bow-shot ahead of him. 
 
 Now the Omahas, who had been deprived of their 
 feast of victory the evening before, had made the 
 feast fires roar upward throughout the village that 
 day and much meat had been eaten. 
 
 Weary with much dancing and singing and heavy 
 with meat, the evening twilight found them sleeping 
 heavily. And the night deepened and still they slept. 
 
 But there was one upon whom the feast had laid 
 but a light hand, and who awoke suddenly in the 
 
56 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 night with a smell in his nostrils, a roaring in his 
 ears, and a great light in his eyes. He marvelled, 
 for the feast fires were dead in their ashes. 
 
 He arose, and when he reached the door of his 
 lodge he gave a cry that woke the sleeping village 
 and brought the people clamouring into the open air. 
 
 Half the earth and half the sky were aflame. The 
 stars had fled before the great burning. Booming 
 in the strong wind, a wave of flame was coming over 
 the hills and reaching long, spiteful arms toward the 
 village in the valley. 
 
 Spellbound, the people gazed. Then of a sudden a 
 cry ran among them, for they had seen, through a 
 momentary rift in the flame and smoke, high upon 
 the eminence of a peaked, fire-blackened hill, a man 
 standing upon a pony s back, .with his arms above his 
 head. He looked prodigiously big and seemed to 
 ride upon a flood of fire. 
 
 Then the flames closed in, the smoke hid the 
 peaked hill, and frantically the people fled from 
 their village to a nearby creek, where they huddled 
 in the stream, and where the loud flame passed over 
 them, booming on into the north. 
 
 When the gray of morning fell upon the black 
 ened prairie, the people returned to their village. 
 But at the opening in the circle of lodges stood a 
 mounted man. Both he and his pony were blackened 
 as with fire. It was Little Weasel. 
 
 As his people drew near he raised a wheezing 
 voice and said: " Behold Little Weasel, whom the 
 
FEATHER FOR FEATHER 57 
 
 fire-spirits love! All day I rode across the hills, 
 thinking of my people s unkindness. In the even 
 ing a great fire grew up about me. It was not a 
 common fire; it was a medicine fire. It grew up 
 about me and my pony, and lifted us like the waters 
 of a flood. And I was frightened till I heard a voice 
 that thundered, and it said: * Little Weasel has 
 been punished by a foolish people. The spirits of 
 fire will take him back and his people will take 
 him in again. And lo! here I am, Little Weasel. 
 I want my eagle feather." 
 
 And the people, believing many strange things, 
 took him in with a great feasting. 
 
 And from that day they called him by another 
 name Paeda-Nu, the Fire-Man. 
 
 And he was great among his people. 
 
IV 
 
 THE SCARS 
 
 MY friend, the old frontiersman, poked an 
 extra supply of cobs into the stove, medi 
 tatively watched the sudden flame lick 
 about the husks, then began this monologue after 
 his usual manner: 
 
 Yes, I ve got a nice place here nice ranch. 
 Didn t work for it either lied for it ! 
 
 Now, I m not given much to that sort of thing, 
 as you will grant; but when I see a place where a 
 good manly twisting of the truth can sweeten mat 
 ters up a bit, I m not so scrupulous. 
 
 Back in the late fifties I was living in St. Louis, 
 pretty nigh broke, for all I d lived a hard, industri 
 ous life up and down the river. One day I got a note 
 bearing the postmark of some California mining 
 town, and it informed me that I had a considerable 
 credit with a certain St. Louis bank. I never heard 
 directly where the money came from, but I thought 
 I knew. I bought this place with some of that 
 money, you see. And there s a little story attached 
 to this. 
 
 For a number of years I was employed by the 
 American Fur Company as expressman. Every win- 
 
 58 
 
THE SCARS 59 
 
 ter I made the trip from St. Louis to Fort Pierre, 
 a distance of about a thousand miles. Carried mes 
 sages from headquarters to the posts and from the 
 posts back to headquarters. From St. Louis to 
 Pierre the trip was made on horseback, and from 
 there up, other expressmen carried the mail on dog 
 sleds. 
 
 Great days, those! Sometimes when I get to 
 thinking over old times, I wonder if the railroads 
 haven t taken some of the iron out of the blood of 
 men. 
 
 In the winter of 50 that was the year the gold 
 fever was raging, you know I got to Pierre about 
 the middle of February. When I had delivered the 
 mail and was making ready to start south again with 
 the returns, old Choteau, the factor of the post, 
 called me into the hut he called his office, and made 
 an unusual request of me. " We ve got a half-breed 
 here," said he, " who s got to be elevated. Under 
 stand? Killed a man in the most atrocious manner. 
 He s due at a necktie party down at St. Louis about 
 next spring, and I d rather not keep him at the post; 
 can you take him down ? " 
 
 I was somewhat younger in those days, and ready 
 for most anything new. Also, I had found the trail 
 a little lonesome at times. Riding a preoccupied 
 broncho through hundreds of miles of white silence, 
 hearing the coyotes yelp, dodging Indians, and buck 
 ing blizzards weren t ever calculated to be social 
 functions, you know. So I was glad to have com- 
 
60 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 pany on the trail, even if it had to be the company 
 of a criminal. Anyway, I had been so taught in the 
 great rough school of primitive men, that I had not 
 that loathing for a killer of his kind that is felt 
 by this generation. 
 
 " Certainly," said I to the factor. " Put him on 
 a mule, and I ll see him into the government corral 
 at St. Louis." So it was arranged that I should take 
 the man to the authorities. 
 
 I did not hear his name spoken and I didn t take 
 the trouble to ask. It seemed to me that a man 
 who was being shipped out with a tag on him read 
 ing " Nowhere," had little use for a name. No one 
 was apt to dispute his identity. 
 
 Well, they put him on a mule, handcuffed, with a 
 chain to his ankles passed around the belly of the 
 mule. He was, of course, unarmed, and I drove him 
 on ahead of me to break trail. He was a powerfully 
 built fellow, neither tall nor short, and close-knit. 
 He had a face that was not so bad, showing the 
 French and Indian strains in him plainly. When 
 we had been riding along silently for several hours, 
 I called to him to stop and rode up beside him. 
 
 I looked into his eyes, and that look satisfied me 
 that I was safe in doing what I had thought of. 
 His eyes were large and black and quiet. 
 
 " I am going to take the cussed irons off your legs 
 and arms," I said; " you can t keep warm this way." 
 He watched me taking them off and said nothing. 
 I threw the irons away. " Go on," I said. And 
 
THE SCARS 6 1 
 
 he went, giving me a look that thanked me more 
 than words could have done. 
 
 He had the eyes of a brave man. I was never 
 much afraid of a brave man; it s the cowards you 
 have to watch, you know. 
 
 All day we rode, saying nothing. In the evening 
 we made a shelter with our blankets in the bend of 
 a creek where the plum bushes were thick. The 
 man was a good hand at the business, and seemed 
 anxious to please me. 
 
 We cooked and ate supper, then rolled up in our 
 blankets. I put my two six-shooters under my head 
 for fear that I might have somehow misread the 
 man s eyes. 
 
 When I awoke in the morning, he had breakfast 
 cooked and the nags saddled. When we were eating 
 I said: "Why didn t you take my horse and run 
 away? I could never have caught you with the 
 mule." 
 
 He searched me for a moment with his eyes. 
 
 " Because I m not a coward," he said. 
 
 And all day we rode again in silence, until, toward 
 evening, he set up a wild sort of a song a chanson 
 of his fathers, I suppose in a voice that was strong 
 but sweet. 
 
 "You sing!" said I. 
 
 Breaking off his song and turning about on his 
 mule, he said quietly, as though he were discussing 
 the best way to make biscuits when you haven t any 
 soda: " Did you ever see a dead liar? " 
 
62 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " Perhaps," said I; "but none in particular." 
 
 " And that is why you never sing." 
 
 That was the last word that day. Up to this 
 time the weather had been rather too warm for 
 winter an ominous sort of a warm, you know. A 
 mist hung over the country, drifting with a light 
 wind from the southeast. During the night the wind 
 whipped into the northwest, and in the morning we 
 had a genuine frank old blizzard howling around 
 us; one of those fierce old boys that nobody cares 
 to face. We had camped in a wooded nook on the 
 south side of the river bluffs and were pretty well 
 protected, so I decided to lay up there until things 
 brightened up a bit. 
 
 The man, for I had not yet learned his name, 
 which was not necessary, as the mail I carried at 
 tended to that, volunteered to gather wood; and so 
 I lay in the tent near the fire that roared in front, 
 smoking my pipe and swapping cusses with myself 
 or account of the delay. 
 
 After a while the man came in with a big arm load 
 of wood, whistling merrily. " Well, you beat em 
 all," I said. " I say a man who can whistle like 
 that on his last trip is a game one. What s your 
 name and who are you? Here, want to smoke? " 
 
 I gave him my pipe. He took it and blew rings 
 meditatively for a while. "Well," said he, "the 
 name doesn t matter much, and I m the fellow who s 
 elected to be elevated! " 
 
 We both laughed strangely, and I began to open 
 
THE SCARS 63 
 
 my stock of yarns, truthful and otherwise, to relieve 
 the tedium of the day. I had told a number of stories 
 when the man seemed to brighten up all at once. 
 His eyes became on a sudden unusually brilliant. 
 
 " I know a story that s a fact," said he. " It s 
 about a friend of mine one of the best friends I 
 ever had, I reckon. At least he never went back on 
 me. Shall I tell it?" 
 
 " Go ahead," said I. 
 
 And this is the story he told me : 
 
 " My friend s name is Narcisse. I knew him when 
 he was just a little shaver. I knew his mother and 
 his father. In fact I was, at one time, just like one 
 of the family. 
 
 " Narcisse was a wild sort of a boy always, though 
 I do think his heart was in the right place, as they 
 say. Never betrayed a friend, never stole, and never 
 knuckled to an enemy. But he was a wild boy and 
 didn t stay at home much after he was in his first 
 teens. Knocked about the world considerable, Nar 
 cisse did, and wound up out here in this God 
 forsaken end of creation. Worked on a cordelle 
 gang, handled mackinaws, hammered pack mules, 
 fought Indians, starved and feasted, froze and 
 toasted, like all the others who come out here. En 
 tered the fur trade as engage of the Company, and 
 was sent to a post up river. 
 
 " Now if there was a weak spot in Narcisse, it 
 was his leaning toward womenfolks. None of your 
 fooling, though ! Narcisse loved just like he d fight 
 
64 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 pretty serious, you know. When he said a thing, 
 Narcisse he meant that; and when he wanted to do 
 something real bad, he did that O, spite of hell he 
 did that! You know the breed? Well, that was 
 Narcisse. 
 
 " There was an old French trader living at a post 
 further up old man Desjardins. He had a daugh 
 ter Paulette by an Indian woman who died when 
 the girl was just a baby, and the old man raised her 
 somehow God knows how till she grew to be 
 about the prettiest girl you d see anywhere in a year s 
 tramp, being a good walker. Old man doted on the 
 girl, and until she was full-grown there wasn t any 
 body could come nigh enough to her to make a sweet 
 grin effective. But once Narcisse and his friend, 
 Jacques Baptiste, got snowed in there on one of their 
 trips. 
 
 " Now them two, Jacques and Narcisse, was 
 about the best friends you ever saw, I reckon. They 
 never had any secrets from one another; and many s 
 the time they had split the last bit of grub on long 
 winter trails, and made a feast of that little; because 
 there isn t any feast better than a little grub split 
 between friends, is there? 
 
 " Now Paulette was a slender little creature with 
 black eyes and lots of black hair. Lots of hair! 
 That makes a woman fetching, don t you think so? 
 Well, Narcisse and Jacques sang old French songs 
 during the blizzard, and kind of got into the old 
 man s heart like. Nothing like old-time songs to 
 
THE SCARS 65 
 
 fetch a man when he s got to that place where there 
 isn t any way to look but back. So the old man made 
 em welcome and said for em to come back when 
 they could. 
 
 " On the trip from old man Desjardins place to 
 Pierre, them two friends talked pretty frank, like 
 they always did. Both of em was in love, and 
 neither of em was ashamed of it. Told each 
 other so. 
 
 " When they camped the first night they talked it 
 all over and Narcisse said : Jacques, we ve always 
 split even, but here s where we can t. It s for one 
 of us all right, but one of us has to go without. 
 How about this? 
 
 " And Jacques puffed at his pipe a long time, and 
 after a while he said : * Let s agree that we ll always 
 go up there together, and let her take her pick. And 
 Narcisse agreed; so that s the way they fixed it. 
 
 " Managed to drop in pretty often after that. 
 But there wasn t any way of telling which was it. 
 One visit she d smile more at Jacques than at Nar 
 cisse, and they d think it was settled; and then next 
 time it was t other way. 
 
 " It was a game, and both of em played it like 
 a game. They were too good friends to slip a bower 
 or ace up their sleeves. They let Paulette deal the 
 hands and they played em the best they could, same 
 as honest poker, you know. And all the time old 
 man Desjardins looked on like the man that runs the 
 game, a-raking in the ante, which was the singing 
 
66 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 and the laughing they did and the things they 
 brought up with em, for they never came empty- 
 handed. 
 
 " Well, the next fall came; the game was still on 
 and neither of em had stole a hand nor a chip that 
 wasn t his. And along about the first of September 
 the factor of Pierre sent the two friends on a trip 
 to Benton. They went up on the last boat and were 
 to drop down again in a maciknaw before the winter 
 set in, after doing a little business for the Company. 
 
 " On the trip up Narcisse and Jacques had a quiet 
 little game, which was poker. They didn t play for 
 money played for Paulette. Sort of made a jack 
 pot out of the girl, and it took Jacks or better to 
 open. One deal and a draw and the high hand could 
 go to see the old man by himself and close the game 
 that had hung on so long. 
 
 " Narcisse insisted on having Jacques deal. 
 
 " Well, said Jacques, after the draw, * the jack 
 pot s mine ! 
 
 " Narcisse throws down three aces. Jacques gasps 
 a little gasp and throws his cards face up on the 
 table, turns white and walks away. He had two 
 pairs kings and queens ! 
 
 "There wasn t anything more said about it; but 
 Jacques wasn t the same man at all. Acted like he 
 was thinking, thinking all the time. Face got that 
 peaked look that comes of too much thinking; eyes 
 always looking a long ways off. 
 
 u How do I know this? W y, Narcisse told me. 
 
THE SCARS 67 
 
 " Hurt Narcisse like everything to see this; but 
 hadn t he won fair? Friends can split even on grub 
 and follow the same trail for years, but there comes 
 a time when they must smoke their last pipe together 
 at the forks. But it s all part of the game and a 
 man oughtn t to grumble if he don t get a pat hand, 
 as long as the deal s fair. 
 
 " Narcisse and Jacques got to Benton, and when 
 they got ready to start back, the river had frozen 
 up, because the winter came down early that year. 
 So they had another winter trail to follow together 
 before they reached the forks. The factor at Benton 
 gave em a couple of good dogs to carry their bed 
 ding and they started out afoot. 
 
 " Jacques didn t have much to say. With that 
 peaked, set look on his face he went a-trudging on 
 in the snow from sunup to sundown. Narcisse 
 couldn t help feeling a little happy, because Paulette 
 was the prettiest girl that ever haunted these parts 
 since the river was dug. It wasn t any more than 
 human, and he d won fair. 
 
 ; Well, they passed Union and they passed Les 
 Mandanes and they passed Roubideaux , and then 
 there was a long stretch of lonesome country ahead 
 of em till they got to Brown s Landing, about two 
 hundred miles above Pierre. 
 
 " One day it came on to blow and snow, and they 
 made a camp in the bluff just like we did here. 
 That s what reminded me of the story. Jacques 
 made camp while Narcisse was chopping wood. He 
 
68 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 cut down a dead cottonwood and when it came down, 
 he tripped up in the deep snow and the tree fell on 
 him. Broke his leg above the ankle. Well, there he 
 was a couple hundred miles toward Nowhere in 
 November with one leg. 
 
 " Pretty hard on Narcisse, wasn t it? But Jacques 
 all at once began to be his old self again. Set the 
 leg as good as he could and tied it up so it would 
 stay in place, and joked and was kind to Narcisse. 
 
 " Seems like old times, pard, said Narcisse to 
 Jacques. 4 Danged if I wouldn t be glad it hap 
 pened if we wasn t so far from somewheres; because 
 we mustn t let the trail fork, old pard. I knew you d 
 be the same again when I was hard run. 
 
 " And Jacques smiled and said there never was 
 any hard feeling, he guessed. But the peaked look 
 didn t go away, nor the far-away look in the eyes. 
 
 u When the weather cleared up, Jacques said he d 
 leave a plenty of wood and grub for Narcisse and 
 he d make a run for Brown s Landing and come back 
 with dogs and a sled. And that made Narcisse s 
 heart warm toward Jacques, because it was just like 
 he was before the girl came between em. 
 
 " And Jacques left before sunup one morning, and 
 when it came day Narcisse went to fix him some 
 breakfast, and there was only enough grub left for 
 five or six days. That scared him, because it was a 
 long trip to Brown s and back, and he couldn t walk. 
 
 " But he didn t cuss Jacques. He just said to him 
 self : He didn t go to take so much, and it was 
 
THE SCARS 69 
 
 dark when he left. And then he just took the hand 
 that was dealt him and began playing against a run 
 of hard luck. The grub lasted only about a week, 
 and close picking at that. Jacques had plenty of 
 wood chopped up, and Narcisse sat all day by the 
 fire with his leg aching and his stomach a-gnawing, 
 a-looking down the white waste towards Brown s. 
 And night d come and no dog sled. Then day d 
 come and he d begin looking, looking. And when 
 the grub was all gone, he soaked up all the leather 
 there was about him and sucked that. And then he d 
 begin looking, looking, looking into the white waste, 
 till he got so s he could see dozens of dog sleds com 
 ing and vanishing, coming and vanishing. 
 
 "But he didn t cuss Jacques. He said: The 
 poor devil s been killed like as not; he wouldn t go 
 back on his pard. And one day he felt he was get 
 ting too weak to watch much more, and so he set a 
 pole in the snow with a strip of blanket tied to it; 
 and that tuckered him out so s he couldn t hardly 
 crawl back to shelter. And with the last strength he 
 had, he dragged the wood that was left up close to 
 him where he could reach it, because he knew that 
 in another day he couldn t get up. 
 
 " And then he began forgetting everything most, 
 and having bad dreams that scared him, all the time 
 a-worrying about the fire like as if he was half 
 asleep, and hearing dogs barking, and trying to 
 get up. 
 
 " And then at last he didn t know anything, till he 
 
70 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 was on a dog sled with the feel of hot soup in his 
 belly. And when he came to, he said: I knowed 
 you d come, Jacques; it was hard sledding without 
 the grub, though/ 
 
 " And then he found out it wasn t Jacques at all; 
 only some Jesuit missionaries travelling from the 
 North. They d seen his signal of distress a-flying, 
 and had come and got him. 
 
 " And still Narcisse didn t cuss Jacques. He said: 
 * Poor devil s got killed or something. 
 
 " And by and by the Jesuits got him to Brown s 
 Landing, and he laid up there till the last of Decem 
 ber, getting so he could walk. There wasn t anybody 
 at Brown s who had seen Jacques; and Narcisse s 
 heart ached; he thought sure Jacques was dead. 
 
 " And when Narcisse got well, he borrowed a horse 
 from the factor at Brown s and went south to Pierre. 
 It was night when he got to the post. He rode up 
 to the cabin where he and Jacques bached together, 
 and tied his horse. There was a cheery light coming 
 out of the windows, and that seemed odd, seeing 
 that Jacques was likely dead somewheres up the trail. 
 And what seemed stranger, there was someone sing 
 ing inside, and every now and then a woman d laugh. 
 God! man, did you ever hear a woman laughing 
 when your heart had been aching for weeks? 
 
 " * Beats the devil ! Narcisse thought, * how quick 
 folks fill your place when you re dead ! Gave him a 
 tight feeling in the throat to think how someone was 
 laughing inside, and Jacques somewheres up trail 
 
THE SCARS 71 
 
 with the coyotes sniffing at him and the snow blow 
 ing over him all day and all night I 
 
 " Then Narcisse slips up quiet as could be to the 
 window and peeps in. He falls back like someone 
 had hit him hard in the face. But nobody had. All 
 he saw inside was Paulette and Jacques! 
 
 " Narcisse leans against the cabin, dazed like, for 
 quite a spell. Seemed like he couldn t get it all 
 through his head at once. Then he saw it all the 
 cards had been stacked on him. He should Ve been 
 dead and he wasn t. That was the trouble. 
 
 " Didn t cuss Jacques even then, Narcisse didn t. 
 Wasn t mad just ached in his chest like. And by 
 and by he goes up to the window and taps on it with 
 his fingers. And Jacques comes out into the star 
 light, whistling. 
 
 " When he runs into Narcisse a-tottering around 
 the corner like a drunken man, he gasps and leans 
 against the cabin, a-holding on to it and staring. 
 
 " Good God ! he wheezes. Good God ! 
 
 " * Old pard, says Narcisse; and his voice was 
 like it had smoke in it, * you win ; I pass ; mine s a 
 bob-tail flush; but you stacked the deck! 
 
 " * For Christ s sake, Narcisse, whispers Jacques, 
 * don t let her see you ! Don t let her hear you ! 
 Come on ! 
 
 " And he takes down toward the river, a-walking 
 like the devil was after him; but it wasn t anybody 
 but Narcisse, limping a little with the bad leg. 
 
 " And when they came to the river Jacques didn t 
 
72 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 seem to have anything to say but O, it s a devil 
 of a mess ! A hell of a mess ! Said it over and 
 over like he was half crazy. And Narcisse said: 
 4 Last fall Fd have killed the man who d said this 
 about you, Jacques. It isn t the girl so much, 
 Jacques; but you and I have starved and frozen 
 together many s the time, and we always split fair 
 till now. It was hard sledding up there without the 
 grub and with only one leg. You stole the cards on 
 me this deal, Jacques; but I m not going to call for 
 a new deal. I ll play the hand. 
 
 " Just that way Narcisse said it. And with 
 Jacques muttering, O, it s a devil of a mess, they 
 came to an air hole where the black water was gurg 
 ling and chuckling. 
 
 "And all at once Jacques flared up and snarled: 
 4 Why in hell didn t you die ? And slashing out 
 with a long knife, he made a long gash in Narcisse s 
 scalp, and gave him a shove toward the hole. But he 
 didn t go in, Narcisse didn t. He s got that scar yet, 
 but he s got a deeper one where nobody sees. 
 
 " And then Narcisse somehow forgot the long 
 trails they d tramped together and the starvings and 
 the freezings together. Couldn t think of anything 
 but the sting of the knife and the trickle of the blood. 
 And the white starlight swam round him like water 
 in a suck hole, and got red like blood, and buzzed 
 and hummed. And he was a better man than Jacques 
 better fighter. And when the light quit swimming 
 around and got white again and the stillness of the 
 
THE SCARS 73 
 
 frozen night came back, Narcisse found himself sob 
 bing and turning his heel round and round in some 
 body s mouth. And it was Jacques. 
 
 "And what does Narcisse get?" 
 
 The man, after finishing his tale, took a handker 
 chief from his pocket, carefully placed it about his 
 throat like a halter, threw his head to one side and 
 simulated strangulation. 
 
 We didn t tell any more stories after that. When 
 night came we rolled up in our blankets, after having 
 made a rousing fire. I did not sleep much that night. 
 The man did, however. He was the coolest I ever 
 saw. Went to sleep like a child, knowing full well 
 that he too had a noose awaiting him. 
 
 When I was sure that he was sound asleep, I got 
 up and carefully took off his bearskin cap, which 
 he had not removed night or day since we had been 
 together. 
 
 I saw by the blue glow of the falling embers that 
 which I had expected to see a long, ugly gash run 
 ning across his scalp. It was not yet quite healed. 
 
 In the morning, as the storm had died in the night, 
 we saddled up. " You take the mule and go on 
 ahead," I said; " I ll probably catch up with you by 
 
 noon." 
 
 The man obeyed. I did not expect to catch up 
 with him, but along about noon I overtook him. 
 " You seem determined to travel my way," I said. 
 He stared at me for some time, and then said 
 
74 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 quietly: " I m not a coward just because I m going 
 to hang." 
 
 And we rode on together. 
 
 The next morning when we had saddled up, I said: 
 " Narcisse, here is one of my six-shooters and some 
 ammunition. There is the grub. If you travel west 
 far enough, you will come at last to the gold coun 
 try. Ever think of going to the gold country? " 
 
 The man gasped and placed his hand to his head. 
 " When did I have my cap off? " said he. 
 
 " You have a good mule there," continued I, evad 
 ing his question. " You have grub, a gun and am 
 munition. Why don t you go west? " 
 
 " Why are you saying that? " he said. 
 
 " Because," I answered, u because I have seen 
 both scars!" 
 
 A light came into his eyes. 
 
 " And you? " he questioned. 
 
 "I?" said I; "well I, while conducting a pris 
 oner southward, was attacked by Indians. The 
 prisoner was killed while defending me with unusual 
 bravery. I lost all my grub, one gun, some ammuni 
 tion and a mule. I barely escaped with my life, and 
 rode like the very devil to get to the next post. Go! " 
 
 I pointed west. The man slowly fastened the 
 grub sack on his mule, mounted, gave me a look 
 which I have never forgotten, and rode west. 
 
 I have never seen him since. As for me, I got into 
 the next post that evening with a worn-out horse and 
 a tale of calamity. 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 
 
 SHE was only a timid little Omaha maiden with 
 a pair of pensive eyes, dark like the thunder 
 clouds, and like them, fraught with a poten 
 tial fire that seemed ever about to spend its fury in 
 the weakness of tears. She passed her childhood 
 hours beside the singing streams and in the lone 
 some places where the silence lingered. The sunrise 
 and the sunset found her where the wild flowers 
 clustered, or where the noises of the nesting birds 
 disturbed the stillness of the thickets. For hers was 
 a timorous soul, and the dumb kindness of the green 
 things was sweet to her. 
 
 So, as she grew in this wise toward that mysteri 
 ous time when the immaturity of the girl bursts into 
 the magic of the woman, her people said: "She 
 talks with the things that talk not; she plays with 
 the wind that sleeps and moans in the shadowy 
 place." And that is why they named her Shadow 
 Flower. 
 
 In the long, mysterious nights of the winter, 
 Shadow Flower wept with fear at the mournful cry 
 of the coyotes, and often through the droning days 
 of the summer did the harsh warning of the startled 
 rattlesnake send her trembling in terror to her 
 
 75 
 
76 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 mother s breast. Yet, huddled close to the group 
 about the evening fire, she loved to listen to the 
 warriors tales of the strong arm and the fierce heart; 
 and her eyes glowed with an unwonted light as her 
 kinsmen recounted the wild swoop of the ambushed 
 foe or the silent pursuit, swift and relentless. 
 
 All the glowing ideals of manly prowess that her 
 maiden heart had conjured, were centred in the 
 person of the fearless brave, Big Axe; for had he 
 not the eagle glance that went to the heart of an 
 enemy like an arrow? Was not his the shaggy head 
 of the buffalo bull that strikes with fear the boldest 
 hunter? The breath of his sinewy breast was like 
 a whirlwind when the battle cry awakened in his 
 throat! There was no arm in all the circled tepees 
 that could hurl a tomahawk so straight and far; and 
 none that could heave above the anger of the battle 
 a war club more ponderous ! 
 
 " Ah," she would say to herself, while wandering 
 alone with her musings, " Big Axe is so great a 
 man!" 
 
 When a band of warriors rode out of the village, 
 bent upon some petty conquest somewhere beyond 
 the blue hills that undulated the horizon with their 
 summits, Shadow Flower would become very lonely, 
 and she would stand for long hours upon some 
 larger hill, scanning the dim sky line for the return 
 ing warriors; for where the battle was, there was 
 Big Axe. And when at last she would catch sight 
 of the returning band, shouting with the great joy 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 77 
 
 of a battle won, how proudly she stared, and with 
 what a light in her eyes, at her graceful warrior 
 astride his swift pony! How anxiously would she 
 search the headdress of her brave for the fresh eagle 
 feather that should speak of some late deed done by 
 the strong arm her strong arm! 
 
 Yet her timorous little soul alone knew of the 
 great overflowing passion that she treasured for Big 
 Axe; unless, perhaps, the birds and the green things 
 understood her, for hers was a passion that little 
 words could not carry. 
 
 Thus did the frail flower long for the golden 
 kisses of the sun ! 
 
 There was war between the Omaha and Ponca 
 tribes. So it happened one morning, in the time 
 when the deer tear the earth with their horns, that 
 Shadow Flower, hunting late blossoms upon the sere 
 hills where the young Dawn danced, heard below 
 her the impatient stamp of ponies, and beheld the 
 mounting of braves, for Big Axe was leading a party 
 of a hundred warriors against the enemy. 
 
 The purple spikes of the ironweed and the yellow 
 plumes of the golden-rod dropped from her fingers 
 as she gazed upon the sight below her. What a 
 sight! It was as the marshalling of the incarnate 
 Winds from the circle of the heavens. Out of the 
 dust cloud that arose from the dry earth where four 
 hundred nervous hoofs fretted with impatience be 
 neath the restraining thongs, she caught the dazzle 
 of the sleek and vari-coloured hides of the ponies; 
 
78 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 some white with the brilliance of the summer sun 
 when it glares upon the false lakes of alkali; some 
 spotted and wiry as the wild cat; some tawny as the 
 mountain lion; some black like the midnight when 
 the storm clouds fly. 
 
 Their gaunt flanks were heaving with the joy of 
 speed and power. Their nostrils were distent with 
 the influx of prairie winds that know no restraining 
 hand save that of the great invisible Master. They 
 snorted and reared as if about to plunge in a wild 
 heat down the winds. Their neighing was the shout 
 of the tempest in the rocks, and their gusty manes 
 were as clouds that tatter in the storm. 
 
 And amid this melee of dust and noise and dazzle 
 trembled the gaudy headdresses of the warriors, 
 bright with the painted wing feathers of the eagle 
 and the hawk. 
 
 Now a shout drowns the neighing and the snort 
 ing. A hundred braves leap to the backs of the 
 plunging ponies. The dust cloud thickens and 
 sweeps down the valley like a whirlwind. A far 
 glint of brandished weapons; a dying shout; the 
 band swoops about the base of a hill. Then the 
 sultry day drones and drowses on the prairie. The 
 grasshopper breaks the slumber of the stillness with 
 his snapping noise; a lone hawk skirts the ground 
 with slow, circling flight. But Shadow Flower 
 stands and stares beneath a shading hand into the 
 brilliance where the warriors vanished. Her ears 
 hear not the snarl and hum of the drowsy bugs, nor 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 79 
 
 the shrill chatter of the sly gopher as it rears its 
 striped body from the grass and peers about. She 
 sees not the circling hawk and scarcely does the glit 
 ter of the yellow grass hurt her eyes. For her ears 
 are filled with the shout that has died, and in her 
 eyes a sinewy, masterful brave urges a black pony 
 down the valley. 
 
 After a while her hand dropped from her eyes, 
 and catching sight of the circling hawk, she cried: 
 " O you who are so keen of eye, tell me, can you 
 not see into the heart of Muzape Tunga [Big Axe] ? 
 O you who are so keen of thought, tell me, does he 
 think of Pazha Hu [Shadow Flower] ? " 
 
 But the hawk circled far away and the day 
 droned on. 
 
 Among the hills, hidden from one who looked and 
 saw not, the war party rode on with the noses of 
 its ponies to that portion of the sky from which the 
 red sun of summer springs, for in that direction lay 
 the village of the Poncas, perched upon the yellow 
 bluffs of the great muddy river. 
 
 On the evening of the second day the air grew soft 
 with the scent of flowing waters, and the Omahas, 
 checking their ponies upon the brow of a hill, beheld 
 to their right the swirling stream, red with the last 
 light of the day; and before them, across a deep 
 hollow, the village of the Poncas, upon the summit 
 of a bluff. 
 
 But while their eyes wandered over the misty 
 stretches of the river, a wild shout startled the calm 
 
8o THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 of the scene, while from the village on the opposite 
 summit a line of mounted warriors issued, taking 
 the precipitous hillside at a brisk gallop. 
 
 The sudden shout and the beat of flying hoofs 
 hurled the weary ponies of the Omahas back upon 
 their haunches. Yet scarcely had the echoes of the 
 shout cried their last among the distant bluffs, when 
 a hundred Omaha bow thongs twanged and a hun 
 dred arrows shrieked their shrill death-song in the 
 quiet evening air. A second and a third flight of 
 arrows, and the rushing Poncas were thrown into 
 confusion. Those in the rear were thrown by the 
 floundering bodies of the wounded ponies in the 
 front, the fury of their momentum hurling them 
 pellmell into the valley below. Then the Omahas 
 swept down the valley, as the eagle sweeps, with the 
 battle cry upon their lips, and the remnant of the 
 attacking Poncas turned and fled up the steep hill 
 side to their village. 
 
 The village of the Poncas, in addition to its strong 
 position, was further fortified by stockades, con 
 structed of saplings driven into the ground with their 
 tops sharpened. The fugitives having gained the 
 protection of this barrier, were safe from further 
 pursuit, and emboldened by their protection, they 
 hurled such a flight of arrows into the ranks of the 
 enraged Omahas that the latter were obliged to 
 withdraw beyond arrow flight, contenting themselves 
 with taunting their besieged foes by displaying the 
 dripping scalps of the fallen. 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 81 
 
 Now the influence of the fading evening cooled 
 the anger and hushed the shouting. From the 
 height whither the assaulting band withdrew to 
 camp, one could hurl the triumphant gaze unnum 
 bered bowshots westward, athwart the brown hills 
 that seemed to have been stricken motionless in 
 liquid turbulence by the enchantment of the sunset, 
 marvellous with the pomp of streamers, violet, pur 
 ple, saffron, sanguine, dun! 
 
 Far up the river the blue haze of the sky-fringed 
 woodland blended into the purple shadow beneath 
 the contrasting yellow of the bluffs, that looked 
 down into the smooth waters, upon their own 
 scarred and wrinkled images crowned with golden 
 crowns by the last scant sunlight. The cottonwoods 
 placed their long shadows like soothing fingers on 
 the muddy madness of the central stream. The 
 Night awakened in the east and stretched its long 
 black arms into the west, and the glory vanished. 
 The distant woodland and the bluffs grew into indis 
 tinguishable masses. The river became a faint film 
 above a lower concave of dawning stars. The camp 
 fires in the village reared long towers of light into 
 the darkness, then fell back into a sleepy glow. 
 
 One dreaming out a sunset on the prairie cannot 
 wonder at the exquisite hyperbole of the Omaha 
 language ; that tongue nurtured amid marvellous pos 
 sibilities of fury and calm, of beauty and terror, all 
 within the sight-tiring circle of stupendous distance. 
 
 The dawn came, and by the first light the Poncas 
 
82 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 beheld their enemies camped across the valley. 
 Upon one side the bluff fell sheer to the river; upon 
 the other lingered a cruel and patient foe. So it 
 happened that after many days, moans of suffering 
 arose from the lodges on the bluff; and the Omahas 
 laughed in their tepees, for the sound of an enemy s 
 wailing is sweet. The sweltering suns of the prairie 
 September beat upon the bare summit where the 
 village pined, and the lips of the Poncas burned with 
 thirst, while their eyes drank of the copious floods 
 far below them. 
 
 So it chanced one day, when a cry went up through 
 the village: " Our children are dying of thirst; let 
 us beg mercy of our enemies ! " that an unarmed 
 brave passed out of the village and across the valley 
 toward the camp of his foes. With tottering step 
 he approached the tepee before which Big Axe 
 waited. His lips were swollen and cracked; his eyes 
 were bleared and sunken, yet they glared as the eyes 
 of a wolf from the darkness of a cavern. 
 
 In a hoarse, inarticulate whisper he spoke to the 
 chief: " Pity my people, for they are dying of 
 thirst!" 
 
 There was lightning in the eyes of Muzape 
 Tunga. "Badger!" he hissed; and he struck the 
 suppliant down before him. 
 
 The sun burned down the glaring blue of the west. 
 A continuous wail arose from the suffering village 
 like the cry of pines in a gentle wind; while from 
 the tepees of the besiegers came the sound of merry 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 83 
 
 laughter that mocked like the babble of inaccessible 
 waters. 
 
 But when the red sun touched the tops of the far 
 hills, another form left the enclosure of the village 
 and took its way down the hillside. As it came 
 nearer, a hush of awe fell upon the Omahas. The 
 form was that of a squaw! With an unfaltering 
 movement she approached, seeming to hover through 
 the mist that arose from the valley. Slowly she 
 climbed the hillside. Not a sound passed the lips 
 of the beholders. They seemed the figures of one 
 dream gazing at the central idea of another. The 
 form emerged from the mist and stood, swathed in 
 the chromatic radiance of the evening before the 
 motionless figure of Muzape Tunga. The eyes of 
 the woman and the chief met in unwavering stare. 
 Had the glance of the former become vocal, it would 
 have been a song with the softness of the mother s 
 lullaby, but with a meaning terrible as the battle cry 
 of a brave. 
 
 With a langorous movement the woman raised 
 her arms, thus allowing the many-coloured skin that 
 hung about her shoulders to slip to the ground, ex 
 posing all the dumb eloquence of her brown breasts. 
 Out of the silence her voice broke like the voice of 
 a sudden wind that rises in the night. 
 
 " Nunda Nu [Man-Heart] fears not Muzape 
 Tunga!". 
 
 The chief saw the lithe young form, heard the 
 soft, caressing voice and shivered with great passion. 
 
84 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 A swift smile crossed the face of the young 
 woman, soft as a last ray of sunlight on a hill. 
 Again the voice grew out of the hush. 
 
 u The heart of Muzape Tunga is strong like 
 his arm and kind like his eye; he will spare my 
 people." 
 
 The chief s great breast heaved with the pleasure 
 of his eye and ear. " Nunda Nu has the heart of a 
 man and the eye of a woman," he said; "her voice 
 is soft like the song of a forest stream; Muzape 
 Tunga spares her people." 
 
 Nunda Nu turned her face to her village and 
 made a signal with her uplifted hands. Soon an 
 unarmed Ponca, manifestly a chief by his garments, 
 was seen taking his way down the hillside. 
 
 "Come! " said Nunda Nu, turning to Big Axe; 
 " my father bears the pipe of peace; let us meet him 
 in the valley." 
 
 Without a word the chief followed the young 
 woman, while his warriors stared after in wonder 
 ment. In the valley, midway between the village 
 and the camp, the chiefs met. Then both sitting 
 cross-legged upon the grass, the Ponca lit the pipe 
 of peace, and having puffed silently for a while, 
 handed it to his conqueror. The sweet smoke of the 
 red willow arose slowly over the silent three, and 
 Big Axe stared abstractedly into the mounting va 
 pour. The evening grew old. The sunlight left 
 the summits of the hills and the shadows deepened. 
 Still Big Axe did not speak, but gazed with wide 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 85 
 
 eyes into the ascending cloud of smoke. The heart 
 of the terrible warrior had grown tender; a light 
 softer than the twilight was in his eye. It seemed 
 that he could hear the slumberous, singing voice of 
 a squaw and the prattle of children about the door 
 of his lodge. There were pictures for him in the 
 rising smoke. 
 
 Suddenly he took the pipe from his mouth and re 
 turned it to the Ponca chief. 
 
 "We will bury the tomahawk," he said; "our 
 ponies shall sweat no more in the battle, but in the 
 paths of the bison. No more shall our faces be cruel 
 with warpaint." 
 
 Again there was silence but for the rhythmic puff 
 ing of the Ponca s pipe. Again Muzape Tunga 
 spoke, and his voice was sonorous with passion. 
 
 " The eyes of Nunda Nu are deep and dark as a 
 mountain lake; her voice is a song that the slow 
 winds sing in the willows. Give me Nunda Nu that 
 my lodge may be filled with laughter; give her to 
 Muzape Tunga that peace may be everlasting be 
 tween us ! " 
 
 There was a silence. The Ponca forgot his pipe; 
 he puffed deliberately and at long intervals. The 
 ascending smoke dwindled to a thin grey thread. 
 With steadfast gaze the smoker looked before him 
 into the darkness, for his thoughts were deep. 
 
 At length he laid the pipe upon the grass and 
 arose to his feet, extending his hand to Big Axe. 
 His voice was tremulous as he spoke. 
 
86 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " Muzape Tunga asks a great thing of his con 
 quered brother; had he asked for a hundred ponies, 
 with feet fleet as the winds in winter, his brother 
 would have laughed at the little gift. Nunda Nu is 
 my life; I give my life to my brother." 
 
 Already the night had spread into the west and 
 the darkness hid their parting. 
 
 Some days afterward at sunset, an Omaha maiden 
 stood upon a hill near her village. With hand at 
 brow she peered into the blue distance. Suddenly a 
 cry of delight trembled on her lips. A cloud of dust 
 had grown far away upon the verge of a hill to the 
 northeast, slowly resolving itself into a long line 
 of warriors approaching at a gallop. The column 
 drew nearer. The face of the watching maiden grew 
 darker with anxiety, as a brilliant cloud darkens 
 when the twilight fails. She beheld the masterful 
 form of Big Axe mounted upon a black pony, riding 
 in advance of the band; yet her face darkened. Her 
 brows lowered with the strain of her intense gaze. 
 Was it a squaw that rode upon a pony white as a 
 summer cloud beside her warrior? 
 
 A shout went up from the village below. The 
 speed of the ponies was increased to a fast gallop; 
 the band swept up the valley. A strange low cry 
 fell from the lips of the maiden; a stifled cry like 
 that of a sleeping brave who feels the knife of the 
 treacherous foeman at his heart. 
 
 In the village was the sound of many glad voices; 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 87 
 
 but in the darkness of the hill above, a frail form 
 buried its face in the dry bunch grass and uttered a 
 moan that no one heard. 
 
 The autumn passed: the cold winds came down 
 from the north, shaking the snow from their black 
 wings, and the people of the village began to look 
 upon Shadow Flower with awe. For never a word 
 had she spoken to anyone since the returning of the 
 band in the fall. With a dull light in her eyes she 
 wandered about muttering to herself: " It was sum 
 mer when they left; now the prairie is so cold and 
 white, so cold and white." 
 
 Absent-mindedly she would dwell upon the bitter 
 words, gazing beneath an arched hand into the cold, 
 white glare of the horizon. Then her eyes, at times, 
 would blaze with gladness. " Shonga saba ! Shonga 
 saba!" (a black pony) she would cry ecstatically; 
 and for one intense moment her frail form would 
 be erect and quivering with joy. Then the light in 
 her eye would fade as the fires fade in a camp that 
 is deserted; a cry of anguish would fall from her 
 lips, her hand would drop lifelessly from her brow. 
 " No," she would sigh languidly; " no, it is only a 
 cloud! O, the prairie is so cold and white, so cold 
 and white ! " 
 
 And the old people shook their heads and whis 
 pered to each other: " The soul of Pazha Hu has 
 followed the summer, for her soul loved the flowers ; 
 can you not hear her body crying for her soul? " 
 
88 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 When the warm winds came again and the hills 
 were green, the crying of a young child was heard 
 in the lodge of Muzape Tunga. The simple heart 
 of the stern warrior throbbed with gladness as a 
 cold seed throbs with the blowing of the south 
 wind. 
 
 But the sound of the infant s voice brought no 
 summer to the heart of Nunda Nu. The touch of its 
 little brown hands stung her breasts, and as she 
 looked upon its face, placid or expressive as its 
 dreams took form or slept, a cold shudder ran 
 through her veins as when one gazes on a snake, 
 for it was the child of an enemy. 
 
 All through the long winter a slow hate had 
 sapped the kindness from the heart of the future 
 mother; and when she felt the new life throbbing 
 into form, her thoughts grew bitter. So now the 
 unforgotten moaning of the children of her people, 
 dying with thirst upon the barren summit, was loud 
 enough to drown the prattle of her enemy s child, 
 which should have wrought enchantment in her 
 blood. 
 
 One night a noiseless shadow passed among the 
 tepees hushed in slumber beneath the moonlight. 
 It crept up to the tepee of Muzape Tunga and 
 crouched beside it in an attitude of listening. The 
 bugs chirped and hummed, the frogs croaked, the 
 wolves howled far away; save these and a sleeper s 
 heavy breathing, there was silence. 
 
 Suddenly there was a faint sound as of someone 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 89 
 
 moving in the tepee; the shadow outside arose and 
 the moonlight fell upon its haggard face, the face 
 of Shadow Flower. She placed her eye to a small 
 opening in the skins that covered the poles. Now 
 she would gaze upon the child of Muzape Tunga ! 
 
 Through the opening at the top of the tepee the 
 moonlight entered with intense brilliance and fell 
 upon three faces. One was the face of her once 
 sweet dream and the face that trembled through the 
 visions of her madness, Muzape Tunga s. One was 
 the beautiful, cruel face of her who came upon a 
 pony white as a summer cloud that autumn evening 
 when the sunlight left the prairie. One was a face 
 that she had not seen before, yet her poor heart 
 ached as she looked upon it. It was the face of his 
 child, her child. Ah, it should have been the child 
 of Shadow Flower, she thought, and her brain reeled 
 with sudden madness. 
 
 As she looked, the woman in the tepee raised her 
 self upon her elbow. She gazed upon the peaceful 
 face of Big Axe. The moon lit up her features in 
 clear relief. Her eyes were terrible with hate; the 
 lids drawn closely about them until they had the 
 small beady appearance of the snake s. Her lips 
 were drawn closely cross her white teeth in a cold 
 grin. Her form trembled as with a chill, yet the 
 night was warm. Then she arose, and with a noise 
 less step, sought for something that hung upon the 
 side of the tepee. She returned clutching a toma 
 hawk. The light caught her whole form, making it 
 
90 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 stand out, clear-cut like a statue, the statue of a 
 prairie Judith. 
 
 Then she bent over the sleeping Muzape Tunga 
 for one moment. There was a dull sound as the 
 weapon entered the sleeper s skull; but more than 
 this there was no sound, no groan. And the one 
 who stood like a shadow without the tepee was 
 stricken dumb with fright. 
 
 The woman within turned to the sleeping child 
 and raised the dripping tomahawk; but her arm 
 seemed to freeze in act to strike, and the blow did 
 not fall. A strange soft light crept over the face 
 of the woman. She lowered her arm and laid the 
 weapon aside. Then with the step of a wild-cat she 
 crept to the entrance of the tepee and, gazing cau 
 tiously about for a moment, slipped silently into the 
 haze of the moonlight, and was engulfed in the dark 
 ness of the valley. 
 
 As the dim outline of the fleeing squaw mixed 
 itself with the uncertain haze and vanished, a great 
 happiness leaped into the stagnant veins of Shadow 
 Flower, and her blood rushed like a stream when 
 the ice melts with the breath of the south wind. 
 
 Even the thought that Big Axe lay dead within 
 the tepee did not quell her happiness, for she said 
 to herself: " Now Pazha Hu shall have her war 
 rior; he shall be all hers." 
 
 She crept into the tepee and, kneeling, put her lips 
 to the chilling lips of Big Axe. He did not breathe. 
 She placed her arms about his body, her face against 
 
THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 91 
 
 his breast, yet he did not move. He lay quietly with 
 the intense moonlight upon his face. She did not 
 sob, she was almost happy; for did she not at last 
 possess that for which she had pined? 
 
 Her musings were broken by the crying of the 
 child. She took it in her arms and held it to her 
 breast, humming a low lullaby, half-persuaded that 
 the child was her own. But the child was frightened 
 by the strange voice and cried piteously. Then 
 Shadow Flower thought, " It cries for its father, yet 
 its father has gone." " Hush ! " she said to the 
 child; " we will go and find the soul of Muzape 
 Tunga; it cannot be far away." 
 
 She wrapped a blanket about the infant, muffling 
 its cries, and tied it about her shoulders. Then she 
 went silently through the village and out into the 
 open prairie, weird with the blue haze of the moon 
 and the lonesome cries of the wolves. 
 
 A rabbit hopped past and stopped near her as if 
 gazing at the maiden. 
 
 U O Rabbit!" cried Shadow Flower, " tell me, 
 have you seen the soul of Muzape Tunga? " 
 
 The rabbit, awed by the strangeness of the voice, 
 moved its long ears; then it hopped away into the 
 shades. The maiden followed and was swallowed 
 in the moonlit mist. 
 
 When the sun looked into the village, the women 
 were stricken with terror and the men with anger. 
 The wise people shook their heads by which to 
 
92 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 say: "Ah, yes; we thought such things of Nunda 
 Nu." 
 
 The days passed; the moons came and went; yet 
 Shadow Flower did not return. There was a com 
 mon thought concerning her disappearance which 
 was never spoken aloud; but when the fires burned 
 low and the night grew late, it was often whispered 
 with awe: 
 
 " She has gone in search of her soul; it fled last 
 year with the summer." 
 
VI 
 
 THE ART OF HATE 
 
 MANY tales have been told of noble sacrifice 
 for love, and I have seen such in my time ; 
 but I have in mind an instance in which a 
 man reached a sublime height through the least ex 
 alted of human passions hate. 
 
 There are some who argue that love is born at 
 first sight. However that be, I am certain that it is 
 often thus with hate. I have seen men in my time 
 the first sight of whom was an insult to me sudden, 
 stinging like a slap on the cheek. It is a strange 
 thing, and I have never heard it explained satisfac 
 torily. Sometimes in my own case I have attributed 
 it to even so slight a thing as a certain turn of the 
 nose, a curve of the lip, a droop of the eye. And 
 again I have felt that it was due to nothing visible 
 about the man, but rather to some subtle emanation 
 from the very soul of him, that maddened me as 
 though I had inhaled the fumes of some devilish 
 drug. Have you ever felt this? 
 
 Well, I am telling you about Zephyr Recontre. 
 
 He was a little, wiry half-breed, with a French 
 father and a woman of the Blackfeet tribe for a 
 mother. Quite a promising combination, if you think 
 it overl I came across him way up at Fort Union 
 
 93 
 
94 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 in the early 30*5, when I was in charge of a keel 
 boat of the American Fur Company. He was em 
 ployed at the Fort as interpreter, being a fluent 
 speaker of several Indian tongues as well as English 
 and French. 
 
 His forehead was a narrow strip of brown be 
 tween his wiry black hair and the continuous streak 
 of black that was his eyebrows. His eyes were large 
 and black and quiet. His cheek bones were promi 
 nent and his jaw was so heavy as to throw his whole 
 face out of balance, as you might say. The face of 
 a stayer, you know. Never said much except as his 
 duties demanded, and then he went straight to the 
 point with a quiet directness that left little need for 
 a question. 
 
 Superb little animal he was, too; had the maxi 
 mum strength with the minimum weight, and a cool 
 head to run it with. I never saw him impelled by 
 sudden anger except once, and that is where the story 
 begins. 
 
 In the spring of 39 I took charge of the steam 
 boat Yellowstone, as captain. We were loaded with 
 supplies for the American Fur Company s posts on 
 the upper Missouri, and carried a number of en 
 gages of the Company, and a certain Frenchman, 
 Jules Latour, who had been appointed bour 
 geois of the old Fort Union, and was going up to take 
 charge. 
 
 If there ever was an emperor in this country it 
 was J. J. Astor, the head of the Company at that time, 
 
THE ART OF HATE 95 
 
 and his empire was spread pretty much all over the 
 white space on the map of the West as it stood then. 
 The bourgeois, masters of the trading posts, were the 
 proconsuls, and they acted the part. 
 
 The engages, humble servants of the empire, were 
 as dogs about the feet of these Western princes, who 
 stalked through their provinces, mountain-high in 
 aristocratic aloofness. 
 
 Latour outprinced princeliness. He felt his dig 
 nity and dressed it ; his presence on the boat was like 
 a continual blowing of trumpets going before a con 
 queror. A capital " I " swaggering in broadcloth 
 that was Latour! 
 
 Recontre was going back with us, having dropped 
 down to St. Louis the fall before on Company busi 
 ness. I happened to be near when master and man 
 first met on the forward deck. They stared upon 
 each other for only a moment; but there were years 
 of hate condensed in that bit of time, the master 
 casting a contemptuous glance from beneath, lids 
 scornfully drooped, and the servant meeting this with 
 a sudden glare of black fire. 
 
 Not a word was passed; Recontre made no sign 
 of obeisance, passing on with a sullen swing, his jaws 
 set firmly, his eyes brilliant as with a smouldering fire 
 blown by a gusty wind into a baleful glow. 
 
 It was a plain case of hate at first sight. A week 
 later, after we had passed St. Mary s, I was standing 
 on the hurricane deck, gazing downstream where 
 the colours of a quiet sunset swept the waters. I 
 
96 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 heard an angry snarl below me, and looking down, 
 I saw Recontre lift the struggling Latour in his arms 
 and hurl him into the river. 
 
 I immediately stopped the boat and ordered a 
 crew to man the yawl and rescue Latour, at the same 
 time having Recontre seized. 
 
 Latour came aboard coughing and spitting, a most 
 ludicrous object. But to my surprise, he immediately 
 commanded that Recontre should be released. I 
 wondered much at this at the time; but ten years 
 later I had a talk with Recontre, which threw some 
 light on the subject. He was leaving the country, 
 and, as we had become close friends, he did not 
 hesitate to tell me what he had kept a close secret 
 for years. 
 
 We were taking a friendly glass together at a St. 
 Louis bar, when I purposely brought up the name 
 of Jules Latour, who had starved to death some years 
 before in a mackinaw boat that got caught in the ice 
 far up the river. I had heard stories of how Re 
 contre, who was with Latour on the trip, had shown 
 a faithfulness to his master equalled only by the faith 
 fulness of a dog to a man. This had always seemed 
 strange to me, and so I brought up Jules Latour. 
 
 At the sound of the name I saw the black fire 
 grow up in my companion s eyes,- just as I had seen 
 it ten years before on the forward deck of the Yellow- 
 stone. 
 
 "You got that story, too, did you?" he said 
 dreamily, staring straight ahead of him as into a 
 
THE ART OF HATE 9? 
 
 great distance. " Well, it s all over now, and for 
 the first time, I am going to tell the truth about 
 the death of Latour and my great faithfulness. 
 When I first saw that man, I felt as though he had 
 struck me between the eyes with his white fist. I 
 hated him as I had never hated before, and as I 
 hope never to hate again. It hurts to hate; it eats 
 into a man like some incurable blood disease. 
 
 You saw me throw him into the water. I can 
 hardly explain why I did that; only, the man spoke 
 to me in a way that insulted me more than if he 
 had blackguarded my mother. It wasn t in the words, 
 for I have forgotten what he said. 
 
 ;t We hated each other. I knew how much I 
 hated, but I did not know how great was his hate 
 until he smilingly ordered my release. I knew then 
 that his hate was a great hate stronger than love 
 can be. And also I knew that this hate would grow 
 until one of us was killed. And it did." 
 
 " What ! " said I ; " did you kill Latour ? " 
 
 Recontre smiled one of his enigmatic smiles and 
 said quietly : " Nature killed Latour ; / merely 
 helped Nature ! " 
 
 And then he laughed softly, while the black fire 
 grew again in his eyes. 
 
 Recontre led the way to a table in the back of 
 the room and we sat down, when he began talking 
 rapidly, never hesitating in his story, and seeming, 
 at times, wholly unconscious of my presence. 
 
 " When we arrived at Fort Union," said he, " no 
 
98 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 one could have guessed the hate that we nursed 
 for each other. Being a new man in the country, 
 Latour consulted me upon many phases of the busi 
 ness, and we were much together. The whole post 
 considered me a most favoured person; little know 
 ing, as I did, that hate can bind two persons as 
 closely as love. 
 
 " My hatred for the man made his a most fas 
 cinating personality to me; and I often found him 
 studying my face with a diabolical fondness. 
 
 " Latour heaped favours upon me, and I received 
 them with a strange gladness of heart that even now 
 I cannot explain. One day in November he sent 
 for me to come to his office. I found him in a mood 
 seemingly most agreeable. His face beamed with 
 a light that any other would have taken for kindness. 
 I saw in it only the ecstatic anticipation of triumph. 
 And when he spoke I knew that I was right. 
 
 " My dear Recontre, said he, * it seems that I 
 am forced to fall back upon you for everything. I 
 have a difficult task on hand, and you are the one 
 man to perform it; I know of no other so peculiarly 
 fitted for it. I shall carefully lay before you the 
 dangers of the mission I have in mind, leaving you 
 free to consent or refuse just as you see fit. Perhaps 
 the undertaking is impossible. It may be that no 
 man is sufficiently equipped with strength and daring 
 to do what I wish. You shall decide. 
 
 " You see he imagined that he was wheedling me 
 through my vanity. He then stated that he wished 
 
THE ART OF HATE 99 
 
 to open trade with the Blackfeet tribe. He drew 
 strongly upon his imagination to explain the great 
 dangers in store for him who should undertake the 
 task. The Blackfeet were at that time deadly ene 
 mies of the whites. They had killed and mutilated a 
 number of traders. I would of course stand a poor 
 chance of coming back alive. He was convinced of 
 that. 
 
 4 Will you go, Recontre? said he, staring 
 steadily into my eyes. 
 
 " I was dumbfounded at the audacity of the man. 
 I saw the light of doubt wavering in his eyes ; but I 
 did not wish to flinch before my enemy. 
 
 4 Certainly/ said I ; * and I will go alone ! 
 
 " I saw the triumph glisten in his eye. 
 
 Very well, said he; you may start in the 
 morning. Make your own arrangements. I give 
 you full power to transact the business in hand as 
 your wisdom may dictate. 
 
 " And I started in the morning. Two weeks later 
 I returned, successful beyond all hope. I not only 
 brought back a band of the leading men of the tribe 
 for a council, but I brought also a young woman 
 for my wife. I called her Pelagie after one of my 
 sisters. 
 
 " As I think of it now it seems miraculous that I 
 succeeded. I am half convinced that I was inspired 
 from out the profundity of my hate to do and say the 
 right things. 
 
 " Latour played skilfully the part of gratitude and 
 
ioo THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 joy, but I saw, nevertheless, the deep, devilish dis 
 appointment that he felt. And I was very glad, for 
 I had conquered in this first combat; and also Pela 
 gic was a pleasant woman. 
 
 " As the winter deepened, Latour and I became 
 more and more inseparable. We outdid each other 
 in acts of seeming kindness, until all the post was 
 jealous of my intimacy with the master. 
 
 " They little guessed how we played a ghastly 
 game that would be finished only when one of us 
 could smirk and flatter no more. 
 
 " The winter grew bitter; heavy snows fell. And 
 I wondered much what great honour Latour would 
 heap upon me next, seeing that I was so capable and 
 willing. Near Christmas Latour called me to his 
 office, and the light of anticipated triumph was upon 
 his face. 
 
 " l My friend/ said he; * I do not wish to impose 
 upon you, but I have in mind a great service that 
 you may render me, as a friend, mind you, Re- 
 contre. I am sure that you will succeed unless you 
 freeze to death or get killed by the Indians. None 
 but a brave man would attempt what I shall mention. 
 I have a very important communication to forward 
 to the office at St. Louis. It must be there before 
 the middle of March or the Company will suffer 
 heavy losses. If you can get this there at the time 
 stated, you shall be advanced considerably, with a 
 raise of wages. Now how would you like being my 
 private clerk? 
 
THE ART OF HATE 101 
 
 " I stared into Latour s eyes and saw all hell deep 
 down in them. 
 
 1 Give me a good dog to carry my bedding, said 
 I, and I will be at St. Louis by the middle of 
 March, and then I thanked him extravagantly for 
 this last and greatest of favours. All the time I 
 hated the man more pitilessly than ever before be 
 cause of his shallowness in hoping to flatter me into 
 getting myself frozen to death. 
 
 " I started the next day with 1700 miles of frozen 
 prairie before me. I felt a strange joy at the thought 
 of my hardships. Once again I would have the joy 
 of seeing disappointment in the eyes of my enemy, 
 and my soul could laugh again. I say I was glad to 
 go, even though I was obliged to leave Pelagic be 
 hind at a time when the post was ravaged with the 
 smallpox. 
 
 " It was a trip to make one love hell by compari 
 son. Nothing but my hate sustained me. On March 
 roth I delivered the written message to the official 
 at St. Louis. He read it wonderingly. 
 
 " What ! said he ; have you walked from Union 
 to deliver this? 9 
 
 " I stated that I had and he shook his head, 
 frowned and dismissed me. I never knew what was 
 in that message. I surmise that it was nothing of 
 much importance. 
 
 " When the first boat started up the river for the 
 North I went with it and arrived at Fort Union in 
 late June. Latour was at the landing when the boat 
 
102 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 pulled in. He threw his arms about my neck and 
 actually kissed me upon the cheek. He then and 
 there made me his private clerk with my former 
 salary doubled. He treated me as a brother. 
 
 " But I saw in the depth of his eyes the soul-fret 
 of a wounded beast. 
 
 When we reached his office walking arm in arm, 
 he gently told me of the serious sickness of Pelagic, 
 and how he had looked after her like a brother 
 through the hard winter. 
 
 " I hurried to my home. I found Pelagic deliri 
 ous with the fever of smallpox. All that night I sat 
 beside her, my heart aching, for I felt that she would 
 die. 
 
 " And for the time I forgot my hate for Latour, 
 until, in her feverish tossing about, she threw her 
 bare arm over the side of the bed. Then I saw that 
 which made me shiver with a desire to kill. There 
 was a scratch on the arm, and the flesh about it was 
 swollen and blue. It came to me that Latour had 
 caused her to be inoculated that she might die before 
 my return, and thus make my heart sore that he 
 might see. 
 
 " I grasped the dirk and ran wildly out of the 
 house in search of Latour. I reached his door. 
 Then I faltered. It was not fear that made me 
 falter. It was that I knew my revenge could not be 
 completed in this way. I wanted to see him suffer 
 more than I had ever suffered. Also I wished to 
 come away with clean hands. I did not know how 
 
THE ART OF HATE 103 
 
 it could be done then, but I trusted to some mysteri 
 ous power that had seemed to be with me all through 
 my terrible winter tramp. 
 
 " I stole back to the bedside of Pelagie. She died 
 at dawn. 
 
 " Latour mourned with me. He wept and spoke 
 touchingly of his own wife. I gritted my teeth and 
 strained every nerve to keep from choking him. 
 
 " The summer passed. Latour was so kind that 
 I often found it an effort to keep alive my belief in 
 his treachery. And at other times, I was obliged to 
 leave him abruptly, feeling a madness in my blood 
 for striking him down, trampling him, tearing him 
 with my teeth and nails. 
 
 " Oh, all the great actors have not appeared upon 
 the stage! I must confess that Nature and Zephyr 
 Recontre killed a great actor ! 
 
 " The fall came, and our friendship did not abate. 
 I began to fear that my chance would never come, 
 and I would be obliged to kill him as one brute kills 
 another. Many nights I lay awake shaping impossi 
 ble schemes of revenge that were rejected in the 
 sanity of the morning. 
 
 " In the first week of October I had occasion for 
 a great joy. Latour called me to his office and stated 
 that certain conditions of the trade which had been 
 wholly unforeseen, made it necessary that he should 
 be in St. Louis before the winter set in. Unfortu 
 nately, the last steamboat had left Fort Union for the 
 South, making it necessary that the trip be made in 
 
io 4 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 a mackinaw boat. Would I, his dearest friend, con 
 sent to accompany him on the trip? 
 
 With a studied reluctance that hid my insane joy, 
 I consented. Latour left a clerk in charge of affairs, 
 and we started. We made very slow progress, as 
 we depended almost entirely upon the current, hav 
 ing no oars, and there being little wind to fill the 
 square sail we carried. 
 
 This was as I wished it to be. I kept longing 
 for the ice to come down and shut us in. Time and 
 again I managed to run the boat aground on bars in 
 order to kill time. Latour seemed not to notice this. 
 In fact, he was unusually pleasant in his bearing 
 toward me. 
 
 * We had a small hut built on the mackinaw, fitted 
 with two bunks, and a small box stove for cooking. 
 When we tied up to the shore for the night and 
 turned in, I was often obliged to choke back laughter 
 at the comedy that we played a grim comedy. Each 
 of us would at once feign deep slumber, ever now 
 and then opening our eyes to see how the other slept. 
 Once our eyes chanced to meet in the dim candle 
 light of the room, for Latour insisted upon the can 
 dle. We both grinned and rolled over. 
 
 "Our understanding seemed perfect; and yet, 
 owing to the devilish refinement of our mutual hate, 
 neither really feared any vulgar act of violence from 
 the other. We knew that the thing would not be 
 done in that way. 
 
 " We had made about five hundred miles down 
 
THE ART OF HATE 105 
 
 stream into the very heart of the wilderness, when 
 the ice began running. Within twenty-four hours 
 after that, we were frozen in. A heavy snow began 
 falling and continued for a week. It lay three feet 
 deep upon the level, and was so light as to make it 
 impossible to take the trail. 
 
 " Latour and I merrily set about to chop wood, 
 not knowing how long we might be forced to live in 
 the little cabin of the mackinaw. 
 
 " We had brought only about half enough provi 
 sions for the trip, having depended upon hunting for 
 much of our food, as there was a great deal of game 
 in those days. The deep snow made it impossible 
 to get much game, so that in less than two weeks our 
 little supply of lyed corn was almost exhausted. 
 
 " One morning Latour said that he was sick, and 
 remained in his bunk. At first I looked upon this 
 with suspicion, thinking that he thus sought to throw 
 the duties of seeking game wholly upon me, who had 
 proved myself so capable and willing. But the next 
 morning I knew it was no sham, for he had a high 
 fever, and was delirious at times. You see, he had 
 been used to luxury, and his feeble constitution had 
 not been equal to the thorough soaking we got while 
 chopping wood in the deep snow. 
 
 " Often in his delirium he linked my name with 
 bitter curses. At last he had betrayed his hate, and 
 I smiled, knowing that he would lose the game at 
 last, since he no longer had the cunning to continue it. 
 
 "Again it began to snow; it was a hard winter. 
 
106 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Much as I might have wished to seek game for my 
 sick enemy, I could not even seek it for myself. 
 Nature had taken a hand in the game; I began to 
 feel her master-touch in the bitter scheme of things. 
 She seemed determined to starve us both; but I knew 
 that I could last longer than Latour with his consti 
 tution weakened by too much easy life. 
 
 " So I blessed the snow as it deepened. Latour 
 would die before my eyes; and then afterward I too 
 would die, the winner of the game. It would be a 
 most sublime revenge, it seemed to me; for I think I 
 was hardly sane when I was near Jules Latour. It 
 would be like Samson crushing his enemies and him 
 self together. No one could blame me, should our 
 bodies be found. I would have had my revenge and 
 still none could blame me. 
 
 " There was a small quantity of lyed corn left. 
 I ate sparingly of this, carefully saving Latour s 
 share for him when he should wish to eat. 
 
 "One morning he awoke from his delirium; he 
 asked for food. 
 
 " * I have saved your share for you, said I. * I 
 might have eaten it, for I think we shall starve to 
 death in a week or so. The snow is too deep and 
 soft for hunting. Still I have divided fair with you, 
 remembering your great kindness to Pelagic, remem 
 bering your great kindness in allowing me to distin 
 guish myself among the Blackfeet, remembering your 
 generosity in allowing me to take your message to 
 St. Louis. Do you remember? 
 
THE ART OF HATE 107 
 
 " He groaned, and his eyes became cold and sav 
 age, like a starved wolf s. 
 
 "I gave him his lyed corn and he ate. His de 
 lirium returned. He cursed Recontre bitterly. He 
 clenched his feverish, white hands about the imagi 
 nary neck of Zephyr Recontre; and I smiled. 
 
 " In two days more all the lyed corn had been 
 eaten. In the meanwhile the surface of the snow had 
 hardened with the intense cold. I could have hunted, 
 for I was not yet too weak, and there was a gun and 
 plenty of ammunition. But I did not go hunting. 
 I saw Latour weakening rapidly. He might die dur 
 ing my absence, and I would thus lose the sweetness 
 of my revenge. It seemed to me that this would be 
 like selling my birthright for a mess of pottage. 
 
 " I could have taken the gun and gone south over 
 the snow to Fort Pierre, several hundred miles down 
 the river. But I did not go. Latour had not died 
 yet. After he died, if I could still walk, I might go. 
 
 " All day I sat beside the little box stove, gazing 
 upon Latour. At night I slept lightly, awakening 
 often to see how fever and hunger dealt with Latour. 
 He might die while I slept. 
 
 " One day in December, I cannot remember just 
 when, for I myself was often delirious with hunger, 
 Latour again awakened from delirium. 
 
 " Food, food! he gasped. For God s sake, 
 Recontre, don t let a man starve like this ! Let s 
 make it up between us; only give me something to 
 eat! 
 
io8 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " His voice was thin like a sick woman s. His 
 face was the face of a damned man. 
 
 * Make what up? I said sweetly. My voice 
 was also thin. I struggled continuously with a terri 
 ble giddiness. I felt as one in a nightmare. I, too, 
 was starving. 
 
 " Latour stared upon me with tears in his faded 
 eyes, and groaned. I, too, fetched tears; it was easy 
 to weep in my weakened condition. 
 
 " I have no food, said I; neither can I go in 
 search of any. I am starving, and the snow is deep. 
 Would I not go if I could? Would I not go for you? 
 Can I forget Pelagic and the Blackf eet trip ? Can I 
 forget the winter trip to St. Louis? 
 
 " Latour fainted. I shouted feebly with an insane 
 joy; I thought he had died. 
 
 " In a few moments he revived, and again begged 
 piteously for food. I wept, and said there was none. 
 Then he became delirious and cursed me like a devil. 
 I never heard such cursing before nor since. 
 
 " And the strange thing about it all was that I 
 pitied Latour. But my hate had become a mania ; I 
 could not relent. 
 
 41 What passed after that hour I cannot remem 
 ber with distinctness. Dreams were real, and reality 
 was a dream. I only remember in a vague way, as 
 though it had happened in a nightmare, that Latour 
 died cursing me; that I sang and shouted; that I 
 crawled out of the hut on my hands and knees, laugh 
 ing and shouting, and that I saw a band of men 
 
THE ART OF HATE 109 
 
 coming over the frozen snow from the direction of 
 Fort Pierre. I remember hearing them call my name 
 as with the voices of a dream. I remember that I 
 cried out, Latour has just died ! And then I re 
 member laughing and crying, not knowing why I 
 did. 
 
 " I remember that these men gave me food warm 
 food and that after a long sleep I awoke and saw a 
 Jesuit missionary kneeling at my bedside. 
 
 " It was then that I tasted the full sweetness of 
 my triumph. The priest was blessing me! He spoke 
 of the Christlike kindness of Zephyr Recontre, who 
 had not deserted his sick master. 
 
 " I did not see Latour again. The Jesuit s party 
 had chopped a hole in the ice and had given his body 
 to the river." 
 
VII 
 
 THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 
 
 The Old Omaha Speaks 
 
 NOW this is the story of one who walked 
 not with his people, but with a dream. 
 To you I tell it, O White Brother, yet 
 is it not for you, unless you also have followed the 
 long trail of hunger and thirst the trail that leads 
 to no lodge upon the high places or the low places, 
 by flowing streams or where the sand wastes lie. 
 
 It shall be as the talking of a strange tribe to you, 
 unless you also have peered down the endless trail, 
 with eyes that ached and dried up as dust, and felt 
 your pony growing leaner and shadow-thin beneath 
 you as you rode, until at last you sat upon a quiet 
 heap of bones and peered and peered ahead. 
 
 Moon-Walker was he called he who walked for 
 the moon. But that was after he had called his pony 
 from the grazing places and mounted for the long 
 ride. Yet was there a time when he ran about among 
 the lodges laughing very merrily with many boys 
 and girls, who played with hoop and spear, made 
 little bloodless wars upon unseen peoples, and played 
 in little ways the big, sad games of men. And then 
 
 no 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE in 
 
 he was called by many names, and all of the names, 
 though different, meant that he was happy. 
 
 But once his mother and his father saw how that 
 a man began to look out of his eyes, began to hear 
 a man talking in his throat; and so they said: "It 
 is the time for him to dream." 
 
 So they sent him at nightfall to the hill of dreams 
 as is the custom of our people. 
 
 Wahoo! the bitter hill of dreams! Many have 
 I seen go up there laughing, but always they came 
 down with halting feet and with sadness in their 
 faces. And among these many, lo ! even I who speak 
 therefore should my words be heard. 
 
 And he of the many names went up into the hill 
 of dreams and dreamed. And in through the mists 
 that strange winds blow over the hills of sleep burst 
 a white light, as though the moon had grown so 
 big that all the sky was filled from rim to rim, leav 
 ing no place for sun and stars. And upon the sur 
 face of the white light floated a face, an awful face 
 whiter than the light upon which it floated; and so 
 beautiful to see that he of the many happy names 
 ached through all his limbs, and cried out and woke. 
 Then leaping to his feet, he gazed about, and all the 
 stars had grown so small that he looked thrice and 
 hard before he saw them; and the world was 
 shrunken. 
 
 And frightened at the strangeness of all things, 
 he fled down the hillside into the village. His 
 mother and his father he wakened with bitter crying. 
 
ii2 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " How came the dream?" they whispered; for 
 upon the face of him who went up a boy they saw 
 that which only many years should bring; and in his 
 eyes there was a strange light. 
 
 "A face! a face!" he whispered. "I saw the 
 face of the Woman of the Moon! Whiter than 
 snow, it was, and over it a pale flame went! Oh, 
 never have I seen so fair a face ; and there was some 
 thing hidden in it swift as lightning; something that 
 would be thunder if it spoke; and also there was 
 something kind as rain that falls upon a place of 
 aching heat. Into the north it looked, high up to 
 where the lonesone star hangs patient. 
 
 " And there was a dazzle of white breasts beneath, 
 half-hidden in a thin blanket of mist. And on her 
 head, big drifts of yellow hair; not hanging loose as 
 does your hair, O mother, but heaped like clouds 
 that burn above the sunset. My breast aches for 
 something I cannot name. And now I think that I 
 can never play again ! " 
 
 And there was a shaking of heads in that 
 lodge, and a wondering, for this was not good. Not 
 so had others, big in deeds, dreamed upon the hill 
 in former times. Always there had been a coming 
 of bird, or beast, or reptile, wrapped in the mystery 
 of strange words; or there had been the cries of 
 fighting men, riding upon a hissing of hot breaths; 
 or there had been a stamping of ponies, or the thin, 
 mad song of arrows. 
 
 But here it was not so, and the mother said: 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 113 
 
 " Many times the false dreams come at first, and 
 then at last the true one comes. May it not be so 
 with him? " 
 
 And the father said : " It may be so with him." 
 So once again up the hill of dreams went the boy. 
 And because of the words of his father and mother, 
 he wept and smeared his face with dust; his muddy 
 hands he lifted to the stars. And he raised an ear 
 nest voice : " O Wakunda ! send me a man s dream, 
 for I wish to be a big man in my village, strong to 
 fight and hunt. The woman s face is good to see, 
 but I cannot laugh for the memory of it. And there 
 is an aching in my breast. O Wakunda! send me 
 the dream of a man ! " 
 
 And he slept. And in the middle of the night, 
 when shapeless things come up out of the hills, and 
 beasts and birds talk together with the tongues of 
 men, his dream came back. 
 
 Even as before the moon-face floated in a lake of 
 cold white fire a lake that drowned the stars. And 
 as he reached to push it from him, lo ! like a white 
 stem growing downward from a flower, a body grew 
 beneath it ! And there was a flashing of white light 
 ning, and the Woman of the Moon sj:ood before 
 him. 
 
 Then was there a burning in the blood of the boy, 
 as she stooped with arms held wide; and he was 
 wrapped about as with a white fire, through which 
 the face grew down with lips that burned his lips 
 
ii4 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 as they touched, and sent pale lightnings flashing 
 through him. 
 
 And as the dream woman turned to run swiftly 
 back up the star-trails he who dreamed reached out 
 his arms and clutched at the garments of light that 
 he might hold the thing that fled, for dearer than 
 life it seemed to him now. 
 
 And he woke. His face was in the dust. His 
 clutching hands were full of dust. 
 
 Wahoo! the bitter hill of dreams! Have you 
 climbed it, O White Brother, even as I? 
 
 And in the morning he told the dream to his 
 father, who frowned; to his mother and she wept. 
 And they said: " This is not a warrior s dream, nor 
 is it the dream of a Holy Man; nor yet is it the 
 vision of a mighty bison hunter. Some strange new 
 trail this boy shall follow a cloudy, cloudy trail! 
 Yet let him go a third time to the hill may not the 
 true dream linger?" 
 
 And the boy went up again; his step was light; 
 his heart sang wildly in his breast. For once again 
 he wished to see the Woman of the Moon. 
 
 But no dream came. And in the morning the 
 pinch of grief was upon his face and he shook his 
 fists at the laughing Day. Then did he and a great 
 Ache walk down the hill together. All things were 
 little and nothing good to see. And in among his 
 people he went, staring with eyes that burned as with 
 a fever, and lo! he was a stranger walking there! 
 Only the Dream walked with him. 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 115 
 
 And the sunlight burned the blue, much-beaded 
 tepee of the sky, and left it black; and as it burned 
 and blackened, burned and blackened, he who 
 dreamed the strange dream found no pleasure in 
 the ways of men. Only in gazing upon the round 
 moon did he find pleasure. And when even this was 
 hidden from him for many nights and days he went 
 about with drooping head, and an ache was in his 
 eyes. 
 
 And in these days he made wild songs; for never 
 do the happy ones make songs they only sing them. 
 Songs that none had heard he made. Not such as 
 toilers make to shout about the camp fires when the 
 meat goes round. Yet was the thick, hot dust of 
 weary trails blown through them, and cries of dying 
 warriors, and shrieks of widowed women, and whim 
 pering of sick zhinga zhingas; and also there was in 
 them the pang of big man-hearts, the ache of toiling 
 women s backs, the hunger, the thirst, the wish to 
 live, the fear to die ! 
 
 So the people said: * Who is this nu zhinga who 
 sings of trails he never followed, of battles he never 
 fought? No father is he and yet he sings as one 
 who has lost a son ! Of the pain of love he sings 
 yet never has he looked upon a girl! " 
 
 And it was the way of the boy to answer: " I seek 
 what I do not find, and so I sing!" 
 
 And the nights and days made summers and win 
 ters, and thus it was with the Singer of the Ache. 
 He grew tall even to the height of a man yet was 
 
n6 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 he no man. For little did he care to hunt, and the 
 love of battles was not his. Nor his the laughter of 
 the feast fires. Nor did he look upon the face of 
 any maiden with soft eyes. 
 
 And the father and mother, who felt the first 
 frosts upon their heads, said: "Our son is now a 
 man; should he not build a lodge and fill it with a 
 woman? Should we not hear the laughter of zhinga 
 zhingas once again before we take the black trail 
 together? " 
 
 And because his father had many ponies, many 
 maidens were brought before him for his choosing. 
 But he looked coldly upon them and he said: " The 
 stars are my sisters and my brothers, and the Moon 
 is my wife, giving me songs for children. Soon shall 
 there be a long trail for me." 
 
 Thereat a cry went up against him and more and 
 more he walked a stranger. Only the Dream walked 
 with him; and he sang the songs that ache. 
 
 Harsh words the father spoke: u Does the tribe 
 need songs? Can hungry people eat a silly shout, 
 or will enemies be conquered with a singing? " 
 
 But the mother wept and said: "Say not so of 
 him. Do not his songs bring tears, so strange and 
 sweet they are at times? Does a man quarrel with 
 the vessel from which he drinks sweet waters, even 
 if it be broken and useless for the cooking? " 
 
 And the father frowned and said: "Give me 
 many laughers, and I will conquer all the enemies 
 and fill all the kettles of the feasts! Let the weepers 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 117 
 
 and makers of tears drag wood with the women. 
 Always have I been a fighter of battles and a killer 
 of bison. This is not my son ! " 
 
 And it happened one night that the Singer stood 
 alone in the midst of his people, when the round 
 Moon raised a shining forehead out of the dark, 
 and grew big and flooded all the hills with white 
 light. And the Singer raised his arms to it and sang 
 as one who loves might sing to a maiden coming 
 forth flashing with many beads from her tepee. 
 
 And the people laughed and a mutter ran about: 
 "To whom does the fool sing thus? " 
 
 Soft, shining eyes he turned upon them, and he 
 said: "Even to the Woman of the Moon! See 
 where she looks into the North with white face 
 raised to where the lonesome star hangs patient ! " 
 
 And the people said: " This is the talk of a fool 
 no woman do we see ! " 
 
 And then the Singer sang a new song through 
 which these words ran often : " Only he sees who 
 can only he sees who can! " 
 
 So now he walked a fool among his people, sing 
 ing the songs that ache. 
 
 Wahoo! bitter it is to be a fool! And yet, O 
 White Brother, only they who have been fools are 
 wise at last ! 
 
 And it happened one summer that the village was 
 builded in the flat lands by the Big Smoky Water. 
 And there came snoring up the stream a monda 
 geeung, the magic fire-boat of the palefaces. Up to 
 
n8 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the shore it swam, and they who guided it tied it 
 to the sand, for its fires were hungry and there was 
 much wood in our lands. 
 
 And all the villagers gathered there to see the 
 magic swimmer of the palefaces; and among them 
 came the lonesome singing fool. 
 
 And it happened that a woman of the palefaces 
 came forth and stood high up, and looked upon us, 
 smiling. White as a snowfall in the late spring was 
 her face, and her hair was like the sun upon a cloud. 
 And we all stared wide-mouthed upon her, for never 
 before had her kind come into the prairies. 
 
 Also stared the fool. Even long after all the 
 people had gone he stared; even until the smoky 
 breath of the fire-boat writhed like a big black ser 
 pent out of the place where the stream runs out of 
 the sky. 
 
 And then he laid his head upon his knees and 
 wept; for a longing, bigger than the wish to live, 
 or the fear to die, had come upon him. 
 
 Very early in the morning, when the sleep of all 
 things is deepest, he arose from sleepless blankets. 
 He called his pony from the grazing places, and 
 he mounted for a long ride. Into the North he rode, 
 and as he rode he talked to himself and to the silence 
 that clung about him: " It was the Woman of the 
 Moon! Into the North she went, even unto the 
 quiet place where the lonesome star hangs patient. 
 There shall I ride there shall I ride ! For there do 
 all my songs take wings and fly; and there at last 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 119 
 
 their meanings await me. There shall I ride there 
 shall I ride!" 
 
 And the fires of the day burned out the stars and 
 died; downward and inward rushed the black, black 
 ashes of the night. And still he rode toward the 
 North. 
 
 And like the flashing of a midnight torch through 
 a hole in a tepee flashed the days and passed. And 
 still he rode. 
 
 Through many villages of strange peoples did he 
 ride, and everywhere strange tongues and strange 
 eyes questioned him; and he answered: " Into the 
 North I ride to find the Woman of the Moon ! " 
 
 And the people pitied him, because he seemed as 
 one whose head was filled with ghostly things; and 
 they fed him. 
 
 Further and further into the waste places he 
 pushed, making the empty spaces sweet and sad with 
 his singing; and the winter came. Thin and lean he 
 grew, and his pony grew lean and thin. 
 
 And the white, mad spirits of the snow beat about 
 the two. And now and then snow ghosts writhed up 
 out of the ground and twisted and twirled and 
 moaned, until they took on the shape of her he 
 sought. And ever he followed them; and ever they 
 fell back into the ground. And the world was bitter 
 cold. 
 
 Wahoo! the snow ghosts that we follow, O White 
 Brother ! 
 
 And the time came when the pony was no longer 
 
120 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 a pony, but a quiet heap of bones; and upon this 
 sat the man who walked for the moon. Then did 
 the strength go out of him, and he turned his sharp 
 face to the South. He sang no more for many 
 days, for his body was as a lodge in which a fair 
 woman lies dead with no mourners around. And at 
 last he wakened in a strange lodge in a village ,of 
 strangers. 
 
 And it happened when the green things pushed 
 upward into the sun again that a young man who 
 seemed very old, for he was bent, his face was thin, 
 his eyes were very big, hobbled back into the village 
 of his people. 
 
 And he went to a lodge which was empty, for the 
 father with his frowning and the mother with her 
 weeping had taken the long trail, upon which comes 
 no moon and never the sun rises but the stars are 
 there. 
 
 Many days he lay within the lonesome lodge. 
 And it happened that a maiden, one whom he had 
 pushed aside in other days, came into the lodge with 
 meat and water. 
 
 So at last he said: " I have sought and have not 
 found; therefore will I be as other men. I will fill 
 this lodge with a woman and this is she. Hence 
 forth I shall forget the dream that led me; I shall 
 be a hunter of bison and a killer of enemies; for after 
 all, what else?" 
 
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 121 
 
 And this he did. 
 
 So all the village buzzed with kindly words. 
 " The fool has come back wise ! " they said. 
 
 And as the seasons passed there grew the laughter 
 of zhinga zhingas in the lodge of the man who 
 walked no more for the moon. 
 
 But a sadness was upon his face. And after a 
 while the dream came back and brought the singing. 
 Less and less he looked upon the woman and the 
 children. Less and less he sought the bison, until at 
 last Hunger came into that lodge and sat beside the 
 fire. 
 
 Then again the old cry of the people grew up: 
 " The fool still lives ! He sings while his lodge is 
 empty. His woman has become a stranger to him, 
 and his children are as though a stranger had 
 fathered them! Shall the fool eat and only sing?" 
 
 And a snarling cry grew up: "Cast out the 
 fool!" 
 
 And it was done. 
 
 So out of the village stumbled the singing fool, 
 and his head was bloody with the stones the people 
 threw. Very old he seemed, though his years were 
 not many. Into the North he went, and men saw 
 his face no more. 
 
 But lo ! many seasons passed and yet he lived and 
 was among all peoples! For often on hot dusty 
 trails weary men sat down to sing his songs; and 
 women, weeping over fallen braves, found his songs 
 
122 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 upon their lips. And when the hunger came his 
 strange wild cries went among the people. And all 
 were comforted! 
 
 And this, O White Brother, is the story of the 
 fool who walked for the moon ! 
 
VIII 
 THE WHITE WAKUNDA 
 
 HE was the son of Sky- Walker s oldest squaw 
 and he was born in the time when the lone 
 goose flies (February) . It was a very bitter 
 winter, so that many years after the old men spoke of 
 it as " the winter of the big snows." 
 
 Sky- Walker, his father, was a seer of great visions, 
 and he had a power that was more than the power of 
 strong arms. He was a thunder man, and he could 
 make rain. 
 
 And when Sky-Walker s oldest squaw bore a son 
 there was much wonder in the village, for she was 
 far past her summer and the frost had already fallen 
 on her hair. Also, she was lean and wrinkled. 
 
 So the old men and women came to the lodge of 
 Sky-Walker and looked upon the newborn child. 
 They looked and they shook their heads, for the 
 child was not as a child should be. He was no 
 bigger than a baby coyote littered in a terrible winter 
 after a summer of famine. He was not fat. 
 
 " He can never be a waschusclia [brave] ," said 
 one old man; "I have seen many zhinga zhingas 
 [babies] who grew strong, but they were not like 
 this one. He will carry wood and water." 
 
 And Sky-Walker s old squaw arose from the blan- 
 
 123 
 
124 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 kets where she lay with the child, and sat up, fixing 
 eyes of bitterness upon those who came to pity, and 
 she said: 
 
 " He will be more than a killer of men or a hunter 
 of bison. Wakunda sent him to me, for I am old 
 and past my time. See, I am lean and wrinkled, and 
 it is already winter in my hair. Also I had visions. 
 Let my man tell you ; he knows." 
 
 And Sky- Walker, sitting beside the old mother, 
 gave words to the old men and women, who knew 
 his little words to be bigger than the big words of 
 most men. 
 
 * The woman speaks true. She is past her time, 
 and she has seen things that made me wonder, and I 
 am wise. She had visions, but in them there was no 
 singing of arrows, nor drumming of pony hoofs, nor 
 dancing of braves in war paint, nor cries of con 
 quered enemies; neither was there any thunder or 
 lightning. 
 
 1 There was only the soft speaking of quiet things 
 the sound of the growing of green things under 
 the sun. And before the last moon died, once she 
 wakened me from my sleeping, for she had had a 
 dream. She saw her son walking a mighty man 
 among the tribes, yet he had no weapons. 
 
 "And a great light, greater than sunlight, was 
 about him. This she told me. Many times have we 
 seen together the drifting of the snows, and always 
 her words were true words. 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 125 
 
 " And see, it is a boy, even as she dreamed. Also 
 he has come in the time when the lone goose flies. I 
 see much in this. He shall be alone, but high in 
 loneliness, and he shall go far, far! Look where 
 he gazes upon you with man-eyes! Are they the 
 eyes of a zhinga zhinga?" 
 
 The old folks looked and pitied no more, for the 
 eyes were not as other eyes. They had a strange 
 light, making the old ones wonder. 
 
 So the word passed around and around the circle 
 of lodges that Sky-Walker s oldest squaw had a son 
 who was not a common zhinga zhinga. And as the 
 talk grew, the name of the child grew with it. So 
 he was called Wa-choo-bay, " the Holy One." 
 
 And as Wa-choo-bay grew, so grew the wonder 
 of the people, for he never cried, and he talked 
 soon. Also from the first he appeared as one over 
 whom many winters had passed. 
 
 When he reached that age when he should have 
 played with the other boys, he did not play, but was 
 much alone upon the prairie without the village. 
 He never took part in the game of Pawnee zhay-day, 
 the game of spear and hoop, which made the other 
 boys laugh and shout. 
 
 One evening in his fifth year, his father, Sky- 
 Walker, said to him: 
 
 " It is the time for the coming of the dreams to 
 Wa-choo-bay. Let him go afar into a lonesome 
 place without food and lift his hands and his voice 
 
126 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 to Wakunda. Four sleeps let him stay in the lone 
 some place, that his dream may come." 
 
 So his mother smeared his forehead with mud and 
 muttered to the spirits: 
 
 " Thus shall you know Wa-choo-bay, who goes 
 forth to have his first dream. Send him a good 
 dream." 
 
 And Wa-choo-bay went forth into a lonesome 
 place without food. 
 
 And on the morning of the fifth day, when the 
 squaws were making fires, he returned, and as he 
 entered the village and went to the lodge of his 
 father the squaws gazed upon his face, seeing that 
 which was very strange. 
 
 They wakened the sleepers in the lodges, say 
 ing: 
 
 " Wa-choo-bay is come back with a strange medi 
 cine-look upon his face ! He has had a great dream ; 
 come and see." 
 
 And the village awoke and crowded about the 
 lodge of Sky-Walker, who came forth and said: 
 
 u Go away! Something great has happened to 
 my nu-zhinga [boy], and he is about to tell me his 
 dream." 
 
 And the people went away, awed and silent. 
 
 In the stillness of his lodge Sky-Walker gazed 
 upon the boy s face and said: 
 
 " What has Wa-choo-bay seen? " 
 
 And Wa-choo-bay said : 
 
 "I went far into a lonesome place; there was 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 127 
 
 nothing but the crows and the prairie and the sky. 
 I lifted my hands and my voice as you told me. I 
 said the words you told me. Then I slept, and when 
 I awoke this is what I remembered ; the rest was like 
 big things moving in the mist. 
 
 " I was on the shore of the Ne Shoda [Missouri], 
 and a little canoe came up to me, and I got in, for a 
 voice told me to get in. Then the canoe swam out 
 into the water and went fast. I went toward the 
 place of summer. I rode far, many sleeps, and then 
 as I was about to come to the end of my long riding, 
 I awoke. Four times I saw this, and then I came 
 here. What does it mean? " 
 
 " I do not know," said Sky- Walker. " I must 
 think hard, and then maybe I will know." 
 
 And Sky-Walker shut himself in his lodge and 
 thought hard for four sleeps. And when the fifth 
 morning came he said to Wa-choo-bay: 
 
 " I have thought hard, and now I know that it is 
 the big things moving in the mist that you must see. 
 Go forth and dream again in the lonesome place." 
 
 And so Wa-choo-bay went forth with the mud on 
 his brow, crying to the spirits that he might see the 
 big things that moved in the mist. He slept and 
 dreamed. Again he was in the canoe and he rode 
 far. 
 
 Then at last the river tossed him upon the sand, 
 and lo! there was a big, big village before him, and 
 the lodges of it were strange and very big. Then 
 the big village wavered like the picture of something 
 
128 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 in a pool that is disturbed, and vanished. And the 
 sun was on the hills. 
 
 So Wa-choo-bay went back to his father and told 
 him what he had seen, and Sky-Walker said : 
 
 " This is very strange. After many sunlights of 
 flowing, the big muddy water comes to a place where 
 a big new tribe has its lodges. And the faces of 
 the tribe are white. Something it is about this tribe 
 that you have dreamed. And I am afraid, for 
 Wakunda meant that all faces should be of the 
 colour of the earth. Let the sunlight pass, and then 
 we shall know the meaning of this dream." 
 
 The days grew into years, and Wa-choo-bay sat 
 at the feet of the old men, learning much. 
 
 He learned the names of the thunder spirits that 
 are never spoken aloud. He learned the songs that 
 the thunder spirits love. He learned to call the rain. 
 He learned the manner of the rite of Wa-zhin-a-dee, 
 by which one may kill a man without the use of 
 weapons. And when he had grown to be a tall 
 youth, he was taken into the sacred lodge where the 
 holy relics are kept. For it seemed plain that 
 Wakunda meant him for a great medicine-man. 
 
 But it was in the summer when he had reached the 
 height of a man that Wa-choo-bay did that which 
 marked him for the lonesome way. 
 
 It happened that the summer had been one of 
 peace and plenty; so the Omahas called in the Paw 
 nees and the Poncas for a powwow, which is a great 
 feast and a talking. 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 129 
 
 And the two neighbouring tribes had taken the 
 peace trail and come to the Omaha village. Then 
 there was much painting in the colours of peace, and 
 the village that the three tribes made was more than 
 one could see with a look. 
 
 In a great circle it lay in the flat lands of Ne 
 Shoda, with an opening to the place of morning. 
 And in the centre there was built a large semicircu 
 lar shade of willow boughs, in which the braves 
 would dance and sing, giving away presents of 
 ponies, furs, hides, and trinkets that please the eye. 
 
 One day there was a great dancing and a great 
 giving away. Many ponies had been led into the 
 sunny centre of the semicircular shade, and given 
 away to those whom the criers called. 
 
 And Wa-choo-bay was there, standing tall and 
 thin, alone amid all the revellers, for more and more 
 as the sunlights passed he thought deep thoughts. 
 
 Among the Poncas sat a young squaw who was 
 good to see, for she was slender and taller than a 
 common brave. And upon her forehead was the 
 tattooed sunspot that marked her for the daughter 
 of the owner of many ponies. She was called Umba 
 (Sunlight), and she was the best to see of all the 
 daughters of the assembled tribes. 
 
 To-day she sat amid the revelling and saw none of 
 it. She saw only the tall youth, standing alone like a 
 beech tree among a cluster of scrub oaks. And her 
 eyes grew soft as she looked. 
 
 And when the centre of the place of shade had 
 
1 30 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 cleared, she arose and walked into the centre. There 
 she stood, a stately figure, with soft eyes fixed upon 
 Wa-choo-bay. 
 
 At length she raised her arms toward him and 
 sang a low, droning song, like that a mother sings 
 to her child in the evening when the fires burn 
 blue. 
 
 And all the people listened, breathless, for she was 
 fair, and the song, which was a song of love, was 
 sung to Wa-choo-bay alone, standing thin and tall 
 and deep in thought. 
 
 Then when her song had ceased, she took off her 
 blanket of dyed buckskin, and, holding it at arm s 
 length toward Wa-choo-bay, she said: 
 
 " I give my blanket to the tall and lonesome one. 
 Let him come and take it, and I shall follow him on 
 all his trails, even if they be hard trails that lead to 
 death!" 
 
 And Wa-choo-bay raised his eyes and gazed with 
 a sad look upon the Ponca woman. His voice came 
 strong, but soft: 
 
 "I cannot take the blanket; neither shall I ever 
 take a squaw. For I am a dreamer of dreams. I 
 shall never hear zhinga zhingas laughing about my 
 lodge. I am going on a long trail, for I follow a 
 dream. Yet have I never seen a woman so good to 
 see. There is an ache in my breast as I speak. Let 
 this woman follow one who kills enemies and hunts 
 bison. I dream dreams, and a long trail is before 
 me, and its end is in the mist." 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 131 
 
 Then Umba moaned and walked out of the circle 
 with her head bowed. 
 
 And Sky- Walker, seeing this, said: 
 
 " It is even as I said. He was born in the time 
 of the lone goose. He shall be alone, but high in 
 loneliness; and he shall go far, far." 
 
 And the time came when the tribes took the home 
 ward trail. Then one day Wa-choo-bay raised his 
 voice among the people and said: 
 
 " My time is come to go. I take a long, lonesome 
 trail, for a dream dreamed many times is lead 
 ing me." 
 
 Then he went down to the great river where a 
 canoe lay, and the people followed. 
 
 They said no word as he pushed the canoe into 
 the current and shot downstream, for a white light 
 was upon his face, and the dream rode with him. 
 
 Then Sky-Walker and his old squaw climbed a 
 high bluff and watched the speck that was Wa-choo- 
 bay fading in the mist of distance. 
 
 1 This is the last I shall see," said the old woman, 
 " for I am old and the winter is in my hair. But 
 great things will happen when I am gone." 
 
 And under the shade of a lean hand raised brow- 
 ward she saw the black speck vanish in the blue of 
 distance. 
 
 Summers and winters passed. Sky-Walker and 
 his old squaw died; the name of Wa-choo-bay be 
 came a dim and mystic thing. Yet often about the 
 
132 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 fires of winter, when the wind moaned about the 
 lodges, the old men talked of the going away of the 
 Holy One, making the eyes of the youths grow big 
 with wonder. 
 
 And often the old men and women gazed from 
 the high bluff down the dim stretches of the muddy 
 river, wondering when Wa-choo-bay would come 
 back, for it was said that great things would happen 
 at his coming. 
 
 It happened many years after the going away of 
 Wa-choo-bay that the Omaha tribe had its village 
 in the valley on a creek near the big muddy water. 
 
 It was the time when the sunflowers made sun 
 light in the valleys and when the women were busy 
 pulling weeds from the gardens. 
 
 One evening a band of youths, who had been play 
 ing on the bluffs overlooking the far reaches of the 
 river, came with breathless speed and terror-stricken 
 faces into the village. 
 
 " Monda geeung [devil boat] ! " they cried, 
 pointing to the river. " A big canoe breathing out 
 smoke and fire is swimming up Ne Shoda." 
 
 The whole village scrambled up the bluffs, and 
 what they saw was not forgotten for many moons. 
 It was a boat, but it was not as other boats. It 
 breathed smoke and fire. It grunted and puffed like 
 a swimmer in a heavy current. 
 
 It had a great arm that reached before it. Also 
 it had two noses, where the smoke and fire came 
 out. It had eyes along its side that sparkled in the 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 133 
 
 evening sunlight. There was none to paddle it, yet 
 it moved steadily against the current. 
 
 The people stood bunched closely together and 
 shivering with fear as the monster approached. With 
 a chugging and a swishing and a coughing, it swam, 
 turning its head towards the bluff where the people 
 watched and reaching out its one big arm toward 
 them. 
 
 "It sees us! It wishes to eat us!" cried the 
 people, and like a herd of frightened bison they ran 
 and tumbled down the bluff. They hid in their 
 lodges with their weapons grasped in their hands. 
 They made no noise, lest the monster should find 
 them. 
 
 But the devil-swimmer did not come. The people 
 listened. At length the sound of the mighty breath 
 ing stopped, then it began again and grew dimmer 
 and dimmer until it died away far up the stream. 
 
 And when the people came forth cautiously from 
 their hiding, a man, tall, thin, with a strange look 
 upon his bronze face, stood in the centre of the 
 village. 
 
 Awed by the mien of the stranger, the people 
 stared in silence. The sun had fallen and the 
 shadows of the evening were about him. Also he 
 wore garments that were not as Wakunda meant 
 garments should be. 
 
 The stranger cast a long gaze about him, then 
 raised his arms and said in a voice that was strong 
 but soft: 
 
i 3 4 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " I breathe peace upon my people." 
 
 The words were Omaha words, yet they sounded 
 strange. 
 
 Again the voice was raised in the shadows and 
 passed like a wind among the people, shaking them. 
 
 " I am Wa-choo-bay he who followed the long 
 dream-trail and I am come back with a great 
 wisdom for the tribes." 
 
 But the people only trembled, and the old men 
 whispered : 
 
 " It is not Wa-choo-bay, but his spirit. Well is 
 the face remembered, but the words are not man- 
 words." 
 
 Then the stranger passed about the circle of the 
 wondering people, touching them as he went, for he 
 had heard the whispering of the old men. And the 
 people shrank from him. 
 
 " I am Wa-choo-bay," cried the stranger again. 
 " I am the son of Sky-Walker. I am a man, and 
 not a spirit. Give me meat, for I am hungry." 
 
 And they gave him meat, and he ate. Then only 
 did the people know him for a man. 
 
 In the days that followed, Wa-choo-bay told 
 many strange things of the white-faced race whose 
 camp fires were kindled ever nearer and nearer the 
 people of the prairie. Also he said words that were 
 not common words. They were medicine-words. 
 
 And before many moons had grown and died 
 these things travelled far and wide across the prairie, 
 until in many tribes the wonder grew. Around many 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 135 
 
 camp fires was told the tale of how an Omaha had 
 come back after being many years in the lands that 
 lay toward the place of summer; also of the devil- 
 boat in which he came, and of the new wisdom he 
 was talking. 
 
 So there was a great moving of the tribes toward 
 the village of the Omahas. The Poncas, the Paw 
 nees, the Osages, the Missouris, the Otoes all 
 heard the strange tale and took the trail that led to 
 the village lying in the flat lands of Ne Shoda. 
 
 And in the time when the prairie was brown there 
 was a great gathering of the prairie peoples in the 
 flat lands. 
 
 The cluster of villages that they made was so 
 broad that a strong man walked from morning until 
 the sun was high before he reached the other side. 
 Then one morning when the tribes had gathered 
 Wa-choo-bay went to the top of a bluff that stood 
 bleak against the sky, and the people followed, sitting 
 below him upon the hillside, for they wished to hear 
 the strange words that would be spoken that day. 
 
 Wa-choo-bay, standing thin and tall against the 
 sky, raised his arms and his face to the heavens, 
 breathing strange words above the people, upon 
 whom a great hush fell. 
 
 And it happened that in the hush a tamed wolf 
 among the people near the summit of the bluff raised 
 its snout and mourned into the sudden stillness. 
 
 And its master beat it for the noise it made until 
 it cried with pain. 
 
136 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Then a strange thing happened. Wa-choo-bay 
 walked in among the gazers and laid caressing hands 
 upon the wolf, calling it by gentle names until it 
 licked his hands. 
 
 And when he returned to the summit, the wolf fol 
 lowed, licking the feet of Wa-choo-bay as it went. 
 
 Then Wa-choo-bay raised his voice, and it went 
 even to the farthest listener, though it seemed a soft 
 voice. 
 
 " This is the first I shall teach you : be kind to 
 everything that lives." 
 
 And the people wondered much. This was a new 
 teaching. 
 
 In the hush of awe that fell, Wa-choo-bay spoke 
 again, while the wolf sat by him, licking his feet. 
 He told of his being in the lands that lay toward the 
 summer; of the great white-faced race that lived 
 there; of the great villages that they built, having 
 lodges bigger than half a prairie village. 
 
 He told of the strength of this great white-faced 
 race; of how they were moving steadily toward the 
 people of the prairie. And then he told in quaint 
 phrases the story of Christ and His teachings of 
 kindness. 
 
 " These things I learned from the great medicine 
 men of the white-faced race, and they are wise men," 
 said Wa-choo-bay. " It is this that has made their 
 people great. So I have come to say: Have 
 no more fighting on the prairie; be one great tribe, 
 even like the white-faces; build great villages like 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 137 
 
 them, for I have learned that only they who build 
 great villages and do not wander shall live. The 
 others must flee like the bison when hunters follow. 
 
 " And I will teach you the wise words of the great 
 white Wakunda s Son, who died because he loved 
 all the tribes. It is a teaching of peace a teaching 
 that we be kind to our enemies." 
 
 Then there arose one among the Osages, an old 
 man, and he said: 
 
 " These are big words. Let Wa-choo-bay call 
 down rain upon us if this big white God loves him." 
 
 Then arose one among the Pawnees, and he cried 
 in broken Omaha: 
 
 " I say with my Osage brother, let Wa-choo-bay 
 do some medicine-deed, that we may know him for 
 a holy one." 
 
 And still another among the Poncas arose and 
 said : 
 
 " If this be true that we have heard, how Wa- 
 choo-bay came back in a holy boat, and that his big 
 white Wakunda is so strong and loves Wa-choo-bay, 
 let him send the rain, and we will fall upon our 
 faces." 
 
 Then the whole concourse of tribes sent up a 
 shout : 
 
 " Give us some medicine-deed! " 
 
 And when the shout had died, Wa-choo-bay smiled 
 a smile of pity and said: 
 
 " I am not the big white Wakunda ; I am only 
 one who talks for Him and loves Him, for I have 
 
138 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 seen a new light. I can do no medicine-deeds. 
 Neither can anyone among you do medicine-deeds. 
 It is all a dreaming and we must awaken." 
 
 Then there was a great crying, an angry storm of 
 voices atout the hill. It beat upon the bleak summit 
 where Wa-choo-bay stood with face and hands raised 
 to the heavens, breathing a prayer of the white-faces. 
 
 There was a breaking up of the concourse and a 
 walking away. But one among the people hurled a 
 stone with sure aim and struck Wa-choo-bay upon 
 the side of the face. He staggered, and the blood 
 came. But he showed no anger. 
 
 Turning the other side of his face, he said : 
 
 " Let him who threw the stone throw again and 
 strike me here. Even so the great white Wakunda s 
 Son suffered." 
 
 But the second stone was not cast, and Wa-choo- 
 bay was left alone with the wolf upon the summit, 
 kneeling and muttering words of kindness. 
 
 The day passed, and still he knelt upon the sum 
 mit. But when the dark had fallen, he became 
 aware of someone near him. He raised his head 
 and saw in the starlight a woman lying upon her 
 face before him, and she was moaning. 
 
 Wa-choo-bay lifted her and looked into her face. 
 It was a face that he had known of old, only the 
 winters had changed it. 
 
 " I am Umba, the Ponca woman," she said. 
 " Many summers ago I spoke to you. Do you re 
 member? " 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 139 
 
 And Wa-choo-bay said: " I have not forgotten." 
 
 Then said Umba, the Ponca woman: " Even now 
 
 it is the same as then. I have come to take the hard 
 
 trail with you, even the trail that leads to death, for 
 
 in all these winters and summers I have taken no 
 
 man." 
 
 And she wiped the blood from his face with her 
 blanket of buckskin. 
 
 There was an aching in the breast of Wa-choo-bay 
 as he said these words, which the Ponca woman 
 could not understand, though her tongue was one 
 with his: 
 
 " From now through all the summers and winters 
 that follow, your name shall be Mary." 
 
 " Have you heard my words?" he said after a 
 long silence. 
 
 " I have heard," said the woman, " and I believe. 
 I alone among all the villagers believe." 
 
 " Then shall you follow me on my lonesome trail. 
 I see not its end, for it is in the mist." 
 
 The days when the prairie was brown passed, and 
 the snows came. And there was one who followed a 
 bitter winter trail. 
 
 From village to village he went, speaking words 
 of kindness and doing good deeds. But everywhere 
 he was driven from the villages. And there were 
 two who followed him two faithful disciples the 
 woman, whose name was changed to Mary, and the 
 wolf. 
 
140 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 And ever the tall thin man, whose face was 
 pinched with hunger and the cold, gave kind words 
 to those who offered blows. 
 
 It happened in the time of Hunga-Mubli the 
 time when the snows drift against the north sides of 
 the lodges, that a rumour ran across the prairie a 
 rumour that a strange sickness had come to the vil 
 lage of the Poncas. It was the sickness called Gcha- 
 tunga, the sickness of the big, red sores. 
 
 Then Wa-choo-bay and his two disciples turned 
 weary feet toward the stricken village of the Poncas, 
 It was a hard trail, with little food and much cold. 
 
 And when the three entered the stricken village 
 there was a rejoicing among the Poncas, for they 
 said: 
 
 " Might it not be that this one whom we have 
 spurned is stronger than we thought? " 
 
 But Wa-choo-bay sang no medicine-songs; he per 
 formed no mystic rites. With tender hands he 
 nursed the sick. Also he knelt beside them and said 
 soft words that were not the words of the prairie. 
 
 And it happened that the invisible arrows of the 
 Terror fell thicker and thicker among the Poncas. 
 The sickness spread, and the village was filled with 
 the delirious shrieks of the dying. 
 
 So a great, angry wail went up against Wa-choo- 
 bay. 
 
 " The sickness grows greater, not less," said those 
 who were still strong. " This Wa-choo-bay s words 
 are not true words. There is a black spirit in him." 
 
THE WHITE WAKUNDA 141 
 
 So it happened that arms that were still strong 
 seized Wa-choo-bay and bound him with thongs of 
 buckskin. Then he was led afar from the village to 
 the bleak, cold summit of a hill. 
 
 There they planted a post and bound Wa-choo- 
 bay to it. 
 
 And the woman, whose name was changed to 
 Mary, begged for him, and the wolf, with its four 
 feet huddled together in the snow, mourned with 
 an upward thrusting of the snout. 
 
 But Wa-choo-bay said: 
 
 " Do not wail for me. This is the place where my 
 trail ends. This is what was in the mist. Let these 
 whom I love do as they will do." 
 
 And when they had bound him to the post they 
 whipped him with elkhorn whips. 
 
 "Where is your white Wakunda?" they cried, 
 and it was a hate cry. 
 
 " Here beside us stands the white Wakunda and 
 His Son! " said Wa-choo-bay; and his brow was wet 
 with the sweat of agony. But the whippers did not 
 see, and the whips fell harder. 
 
 And after some time Wa-choo-bay raised his head 
 weakly to the darkening heavens, for the sun had 
 fallen, and moaned soft words that were not prairie 
 words. 
 
 Then his head fell forward upon his breast. 
 
 The whips fell no more. The whippers departed. 
 
 The sky was like a sheet of frosty metal and the 
 stars were like broken ice. 
 
142 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Against the sky hung the thin figure of Wa-choo- 
 bay lashed to the post, and beneath him in the 
 shadow huddled two who sent trembling cries of 
 sorrow into the empty spaces of the snow a woman 
 and a wolf. 
 
IX 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA 
 
 WHEN Seha had grown to be a tall youth, 
 he said to the old men: u Now I am 
 almost a man; what shall I do?" For 
 being a youth, he dreamed of great things. And the 
 old men answered: " That Wakunda knows; there 
 fore, take yourself to a high hill ; there fast and pray 
 until sleep comes, and with it a vision." 
 
 So Seha arose and laid aside his garments, and 
 naked, went out on the prairie. When he had 
 gone far, he climbed to the top of a lonely hill, bare 
 of grass and strewn with flakes of stone that made 
 its summit white like the head of a man who has seen 
 many winters. 
 
 Then he knelt upon the flinty summit, and raising 
 his palms to the heavens, he cried: "O Wakunda, 
 here needy stands Seha ! " Four times he uttered 
 the cry, yet there was no sound save that of the crow 
 overhead, and the wind in the short grass of the hill 
 side. 
 
 Then he fell into an agony of weeping, and wet 
 ting his palms with his tears, he rubbed them in the 
 white dust and smeared his face with mud. Then he 
 cast his wet eyes to the heavens, and again raised his 
 hands in supplication. 
 
 143 
 
144 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " O Wakunda, Seha is a young man ; he would 
 do great things like the old men ; send him a vision ! " 
 
 The night came down and still he held his eyes 
 upon the darkening heavens, crying for a vision. 
 But only the coyote answered him. The stars looked 
 out of the east and steadily climbed upward, gazing 
 upon his tearful face. But when the grey of age 
 began to grow upon the forehead of the Night, he 
 grew so weary that he fell forward upon his face 
 and slept. 
 
 And lo ! the vision came ! 
 
 It seemed that the skies were black and fierce as 
 the face of a brave in anger. The lightning glared; 
 and the thunder shouted like a warrior in the front 
 of the battle ! Then the cloud split, and through it 
 rushed a mighty eagle with the lightning playing on 
 its wings; its cry was like the shriek of a dying foe 
 and its eyes were bright with the vision that sees far. 
 Its wings hovered over Seha, and it spoke : 
 
 " Seha shall be a seer of things far off. His 
 thought shall be quick as the lightning, and his voice 
 shall be as thunder in the ears of men! " 
 
 Seha awoke, and he was shivering with the dews 
 of morning. Then he arose and walked back toward 
 his village, slowly, for his thoughts were great. 
 Four days he went about the village, speaking to no 
 one; and the people whispered: " Seha has had a 
 vision; do you not see that his eyes are big with a 
 strange light? " 
 
 One night after the four days had passed, Seha 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA 145 
 
 arose from his blankets and, creeping stealthily out 
 of his tepee, he went to the lodge of Ebahamba, who 
 was a great medicine-man, for Seha wished to tell 
 his vision into a wise ear. 
 
 Pulling back the buffalo robe that hung across the 
 entrance he saw the great man sleeping in the moon 
 light that fell through the opening at the top of the 
 tepee. Entering, he touched the shoulder of the 
 sleeper, who awoke with a start, and, sitting up, 
 stared at the young intruder. Then Ebahamba 
 being thoroughly awakened, spoke : 
 
 "Seha has come to tell his vision; I knew he 
 would come; speak." 
 
 " You are a great man," began Seha, " and your 
 eyes are like the sun s eyes to see into the shadow. 
 Hear me and teach me." 
 
 Then he told of his vision on the lonely hill. 
 
 As Ebahamba listened to the wonderful thing that 
 had befallen the youth, his heart grew cold with 
 envy; for certainly great things were in store for 
 Seha, and might it not come to pass that the youth 
 should grow even greater in power than Ebahamba 
 himself ? 
 
 So, when the youth had ceased, breathless with 
 the wonder of the thing he told, the old man said 
 coldly: " Wakunda will teach Seha; let him go 
 learn of the wind and the growing things! " 
 
 Then the youth arose and left the lodge. But the 
 big medicine-man slept no more that night, for jeal 
 ousy is sleepless. 
 
146 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 At that time it happened that the winds were hot 
 from the southwest, and the maize grew yellow as 
 the sun that smote it, and the rainless air curled its 
 blades. And the old man Ebahamba cried to Wa- 
 kunda for rain; but the skies only glared back for 
 answer. 
 
 Then a great moan went up before the lodge of 
 the big medicine-man, Ebahamba. u Ebahamba 
 speaks with the spirits; let him pray to the thunder 
 spirits that we may have food for our squaws and 
 our children ! " 
 
 And Ebahamba shut himself in his tepee four 
 days, fasting, crying to the thunder spirits, and per 
 forming strange rites. But every morning the sun 
 arose glaring like the eye of a man who dies of fever, 
 and the hot wind sweltered up from the southwest, 
 moaning hoarsely like one who moans with thirst; 
 and the maize heard the moan and wilted. 
 
 Then when the people grew clamorous before the 
 lodge of Ebahamba, he came forth and said: " The 
 thunder spirits are sleeping; they are weary and 
 drowsy with the heat." And the hooting of his 
 people drove him back into his lodge. 
 
 Then Seha raised his voice above the despairing 
 murmur of the village, saying: "Seha is a young 
 man, yet the thunder spirits will hear him, be they 
 ever so drowsy, for Seha has had a vision. Seha will 
 call the rain." 
 
 The murmur of the people ceased, for so strange 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA 147 
 
 a light was in the eyes of the youth that they be 
 lieved. 
 
 " Let Seha give us rain," they cried, " and he shall 
 be a great man among his people ! " 
 
 Then Seha strode out of the village and disap 
 peared in the hills. His heart was loud as he walked, 
 for would he not be a great man among his people? 
 He believed in his power with that belief which is 
 the power. All day he walked, and when the red 
 sun glared across the western hills like an eye blood 
 shot with pain, he came to a clump of cottonwoods 
 that sang upon the summit of a bluff. 
 
 Now the thunder spirits love the cottonwoods, for 
 they rise sternly from the earth, reaching their long 
 arms into the clouds, and they cry back at the storm 
 with a loud voice. Where the cottonwood sings, 
 there the thunder spirits sleep, and the thunder 
 birds, the eagle and the hawk, watch with keen 
 eyes. 
 
 Under the trees Seha stood, and raising his hands 
 and his eyes to the heavens, he cried: " Hear Seha ! 
 For is he not a thunder man? Did he not dream the 
 thunder man s dream? Then I command you, send 
 the big clouds boiling before the wind; send the 
 rains, that my people may have food for their chil 
 dren. Then I will be a great man among my 
 people ! " 
 
 The trees only tossed their branches above him, 
 while they sang softly in the wind. 
 
148 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " O Thunder Spirits! " he cried again. " You are 
 not asleep! I hear you talking together in the tree 
 tops. Listen to me, for I am a thunder man ! " 
 
 Then a dead calm grew. The cottonwoods were 
 still. Suddenly they groaned with a cool gust from 
 the east. The groan was like a waking man s groan 
 when he arises, stretching and yawning, from his 
 blankets. 
 
 Then Seha lay down to sleep; for were not the 
 thunder spirits awake? 
 
 When the night was late, Seha was awakened by 
 the howl of the thunder. He saw the quick light 
 ning pierce the boiling darkness in the east. Then 
 the rain drops danced upon the dry hills with a sound 
 like the unintelligible patter of many voices that are 
 glad. 
 
 Seha was glad, and he answered the shout of the 
 thunder. His people in the village were glad, and 
 their tongues were noisy with the name of Seha. 
 The maize was glad and it looked up to the kind 
 sky, tossing its arms in exultation. 
 
 When Seha returned to the village, he was the 
 centre of a joyful cry; he had become a great man 
 among his people. And when they asked from 
 whence he had such great powers, he said: "I 
 caught it from the blowing wind; I heard it in the 
 growing of the maize." 
 
 But there was one who did not greet the mysteri 
 ous youth. Ebahamba shut himself in his tepee, 
 for had he not failed to awaken the thunder spirits 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA 149 
 
 when a youth had succeeded? Ebahamba sat sul 
 lenly in his tepee, thinking great and fierce thoughts ; 
 and after many days of fasting, his magic came back 
 to him. Then he summoned to his lodge one by one, 
 the men of his band, and he said to each : " Behold ! 
 Seha speaks with evil spirits. May he not destroy 
 his people? Then let us perform the rite of Waz- 
 hinadee against him that he may be forsaken by man 
 and beast and so die ! " 
 
 The men of his band believed Ebahamba, for his 
 magic was very great now, and he forced them to 
 believe. So each man went to his tepee, shut himself 
 in, feasted and thought sternly against Seha. For 
 this is the manner of the rite of Wazhinadee. 
 
 Then after his enemies had thought strongly for 
 many days against him, Seha was seized with a 
 strange weakness. His eyes lost their brightness, 
 and he could not see far as before. All through the 
 days and the nights he went about the village, crying 
 for his lost power; and the people said: " The coy 
 otes are barking in the hills." They could not see 
 him for the mist that the terrible rite had cast about 
 him. 
 
 Then Seha wandered out on the prairie, wailing 
 as ever for his lost power. And after many days, 
 he laid himself down by a stream to die. But he did 
 not die. He slept; and the vision came again. When 
 he awoke, he was strong again and his eyes could see 
 far as before. 
 
 Then he said: "I will cleanse myself in the 
 
150 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 stream and go back to my people, for I am strong 
 again." 
 
 But lo ! as he leaned over the clear stream, he be 
 held the reflected image of an eagle far above him. 
 Now a medicine man can change himself at will into 
 anything that walks or crawls or flies or is still; and 
 as Seha watched the eagle, he knew that it was 
 Ebahamba ! 
 
 So gliding into the stream, he quickly changed 
 himself into a great fish floundering temptingly upon 
 the surface. The eagle, which was Ebahamba, being 
 hungry, swooped down upon the fish with wide beak 
 and open talons. 
 
 In a mpment, Seha changed himself into a huge 
 boulder, against which the swooping bird dashed 
 furiously, crushing its beak and talons. Then it 
 arose, and with bloody wings, fluttered across the 
 prairie. 
 
 Seha stepped out of his rock and laughed a loud, 
 long laugh, and the eagle, which was Ebahamba, 
 heard and knew. 
 
 So Seha returned to his village and was a great 
 man among his people. But Ebahamba hid himself 
 in his tepee; and a rumour ran that his arms were 
 broken and his face crushed. 
 
 And there was much wonder in the village! 
 
X 
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 
 
 THE old woman Gunthai had nothing but a 
 past over which she brooded and a son 
 upon whom she doted. Had she been able 
 to write the latter in the letters of that tongue which 
 came to the prairie many moons after her death, 
 breaking with syllables of magic the spell of the 
 centuries, she would have written it with a " u " ; 
 for her son was as the day to her; his coming was 
 the morning and his going was the sunset. When 
 he laughed, there was summer in the wretched little 
 tepee; when he cried, the snows drifted about the 
 mother-heart 
 
 Winter and summer the old woman sat in her 
 lodge, her back bent with the burdens of many sea 
 sons and her face seamed with many memories; yet 
 stern and expressionless as of one who has followed 
 a long trail and cannot see its end though the sun 
 be falling. 
 
 All day she would sit in her lodge, weaving bas 
 kets of willow, which she exchanged with her tribes 
 men for meat and robes; for the father of her child 
 was dead. Her little boy, whom she tenderly called 
 Nu Zhinga (Little Man), would lie long hours 
 
152 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 before her with his chin resting upon his little brown 
 hands, watching the fingers of his mother weave the 
 pliant twigs into form with marvellous skill, as it 
 seemed to him; and often when the hours crept 
 lamely, he would sing to her a monotonous song like 
 the wind s, timing the irregular air with the beating 
 of his toes upon the floor. 
 
 And when the little singer would cease, the old 
 woman Gunthai often forgot the unwoven basket 
 with gazing into his big black eyes, for in them her 
 hope could read great deeds that were to be done 
 after many unborn moons had waned. 
 
 Then she would tell him tales of his father; tales 
 that were loud with the snarl of war drums, the 
 twang of bow thongs, the shriek of arrows, the beat 
 of hoofs ! But there was no responsive glitter in the 
 eyes of the boy; his heart was not the warrior s, and 
 the old mother seeing this, sighed and fell to work 
 with nervous haste. 
 
 And the days of sun and snow wove themselves 
 into years, until Nu Zhinga had reached that time 
 when boyhood begins to deepen into manhood; and 
 yet as the mother looked upon her son, she found 
 him scarcely taller than a weak man s bow. 
 
 His legs were short and bowed, his hips narrow, 
 and upon shoulders of abnormal breadth sat his 
 monstrous, shaggy head. It was as if he were the 
 visible body of a black spirit s joke, save for his 
 lustrous eyes, that were like two stars that burn big 
 in the air of evening through a film of mist. 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 153 
 
 And thus it was that when Nu Zhinga passed 
 through the village, those who were still foolish 
 with youth jeered at the lad, calling his name in con 
 tempt; but the old men and women who had grown 
 wise, only shook their heads and pitied Gunthai in 
 silence. 
 
 But the boy would take no notice of his tormen 
 tors, walking on sullen and silent. He lived in a 
 little world of his own, which was isolated from the 
 great world by the unkindness of his people, like a 
 range of frozen hills; and in this small world there 
 were but three dwellers: Gunthai, a tame grey wolf, 
 and one other. That other was a despised little crip 
 ple and her name was Tabea (Frog). 
 
 These three, and about them the chromatic glory 
 of dreams like a sunrise that lingers this was the 
 world of Nu Zhinga. All day amid the quiet of 
 the summer hills Nu Zhinga and Tabea played to 
 gether; he telling of the great indefinite things that 
 he would do in that big mysterious sometime when 
 the days would be pregnant with wonders! For in 
 his soul the pulse of uncertain but lofty resolve 
 bounded, and as he peered into the future, lo ! it was 
 vast, yet dim with misty possibilities like a broad 
 stretch of prairie expanding under the new moon! 
 And she, with all of her crooked little body attentive, 
 listened and believed even more than she heard; 
 which is the way of those who love. 
 
 And then these two, after the manner of children, 
 would play at life, building a tepee with willows 
 
154 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 from a convenient creek; and Tabea would groan 
 as she bore the heavy burdens, thus showing how she 
 would toil for him and suffer. Then when the tepee 
 was built, she would go about droning a song, with 
 her back bent as with the weight of an infant, thus 
 showing how she would carry the child of Nu 
 Zhinga in that big and sunlit sometime. 
 
 One day when the last white footstep of the win 
 ter had vanished from the coldest valley, the old 
 woman Gunthai laid aside a finished basket and 
 called her boy to her side. 
 
 " It is the time," she said; " the time is ripe with 
 summers. Nu Zhinga must eat no meat for four 
 days; then he must go to the hill where the visions 
 come, that he may know what is to be for him in 
 the light of the unborn moons. " 
 
 So Nu Zhinga ate no meat for four days, and 
 when the fourth evening came, as the fires roared 
 upward among the circled lodges, he passed through 
 the village and took his way to the high hill of 
 dreams. It was the time when the valleys are loud 
 with the song of frogs and when the Earth begins to 
 learn anew the pleasant lesson of the Sun. 
 
 When he had stopped, breathless with toiling up 
 the long incline, for he was weak with hunger, he 
 turned and looked back upon the jumbled village 
 and saw, indistinctly through the mist of the even 
 ing, his mother standing before the door of her 
 lodge, straining her gaze that she might see her boy 
 for the last time, climbing to the height where the 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 155 
 
 dream awaited, that should send him back a man 
 with a future big in deeds. 
 
 Then Nu Zhinga climbed on to the summit of the 
 hill and watched the west pass from brilliant colours 
 into dun, and the darkness come with the stars. In 
 the light of a thin moon the far hills whitened. The 
 big stars glowed kindly like the camp fires of a 
 friendly people. The night wind talked to itself in 
 the gulches; and attentive to these, Nu Zhinga for 
 got the reason of his coming, and lulled by the many 
 pleasant sounds, fell asleep and was awakened by 
 the pale damp Dawn. 
 
 Then he ran down the hill, and as he passed 
 through the village, the old women, some busy about 
 the steaming kettles, others bent beneath the loads of 
 fuel, shook their heads and said: " Gunthai s boy 
 has had no vision ; not so do they return who dream 
 great dreams." 
 
 In the doorway of her lodge Gunthai stood await 
 ing the approach of her son. Her body that was 
 wont to be bent like a bow upon which a heavy hand 
 is laid in anger, was erect and quivering as is the 
 bow when the arrow has sped like a purpose. Upon 
 her leathery, wrinkled face dwelt the glimmer of an 
 inner illumination. Only the flesh was old, the light 
 was young; for Hope is a youth. 
 
 As the lad approached, the tenseness of expecta 
 tion held the old woman s tongue and her question 
 came from her eyes. "What has Nu Zhinga 
 dreamed? " 
 
156 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " I saw the stars that were like the eyes of a 
 friend," said the boy, " and I heard the wind as it 
 sang to itself in the gulches. I slept and woke and 
 the Sun was laughing on the hills ! " 
 
 Many seasons sit lightly upon a form when Hope 
 sits with them; but Despair is heavy, and again the 
 weight of many years bent the shoulders of the 
 mother. When the sun leaves a cloud of glory, it 
 leaves a mass of murk; thus passed the light from 
 the wrinkled face of Gunthai. 
 
 There was a sigh in her voice as she spoke ; a sigh 
 like that of a wind that is heavy with rain: " There 
 should have come a dream loud with the noises of 
 battle and shrill with the flight of arrows! Thus 
 did your father dream." 
 
 So Nu Zhinga went a second and a third and a 
 fourth time to the hill of dreams, and the last answer 
 that his mother heard was like the first. And on 
 the fifth day the heart of the old mother was sore 
 with sorrow, and all that night she did not sleep, but 
 wept and moaned: "How shall Gunthai be com 
 forted when her eyes are dim and her fingers stiff? 
 Her son shall not be mighty in the hunt and battle, 
 for he has had no dream." 
 
 The lad, awakened in the night by the moaning of 
 his mother, knew in an indefinite way that he was the 
 cause of so much grief; and in his breast grew a 
 great pang of soul hunger that would not pass away. 
 Even with the giant joy of the sunrise it did not 
 pass away. 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 157 
 
 In the early light Nu Zhinga passed out of the vil 
 lage, for his heart was heavy. As he walked, lo 
 everything was sad except the sun, and the light of 
 its gladness deepened the shadow of his sorrow. 
 The sound of the wind moving in the bunch grass of 
 the hillside was like a faint cry of a great pain. At 
 length he threw himself down and buried his face 
 in the grass. The despair of those who dream day 
 dreams was upon him. There was night in his heart; 
 his small body shook with sobs. A long while he 
 lay thus, nor did he hear the soft step that stopped 
 beside him. 
 
 At length Nu Zhinga raised his head from the 
 grass and saw Tabea sitting beside him with pity in 
 her eyes and in the attitude of her crooked little body. 
 Without a word they stared each into the face of 
 the other; and as Nu Zhinga looked, the desolate 
 grey of the world began to develop its wonted 
 brilliance of colour, as though the union of their 
 tears had produced a prism. 
 
 At length these two arose and walked among the 
 hills, dreaming as was their wont, and again the sun 
 light entered the heart of Nu Zhinga. When the 
 two outcasts entered the village, even though the 
 youths trooped behind them shouting " Peazha I " 
 (no good), yet the sunlight did not pass; for upon 
 one hand walked the dreams of Nu Zhinga and upon 
 the other, Tabea. 
 
 One day in the time of the gathering of the maize, 
 when the brown hills shivered with the first frosts, 
 
158 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the voice of a crier was heard through the village 
 calling the braves to battle; for the big chief of the 
 Omahas would lead a war party against the Sioux. 
 
 So the old woman Gunthai took down the weapons 
 of her fallen brave from the side of the tepee where 
 they had hung in idleness for many moons. She 
 strung the long unbent bow with a thong of buckskin 
 and retipped the arrows with the feathers of the 
 hawk. Then she wept over them, and blessed them 
 with weird songs ; and calling Nu Zhinga to her side, 
 placed them in his hands, and said: "Bring them 
 back red with the blood of the Sioux! " 
 
 And the youth took them, wondering why it was 
 so very great a thing to kill. 
 
 Then the war party rode out of the village and 
 Nu Zhinga rode with it. And there were two who 
 climbed to the highest hill and, shading their eyes 
 with their hands, watched the braves disappear into 
 the distance. They were Gunthai and Tabea, and 
 the hopes of each were great. For might not even 
 Nu Zhinga do great deeds? Such things had been. 
 
 After many days the returning band rode up the 
 valley that rang with the song of victory. But when 
 it rode into the village, a great cry went up against 
 Nu Zhinga, the squaw-hearted. For in the battle 
 with the Sioux his pony had fallen with an arrow 
 in its breast, and when the Omahas returned from 
 the pitiless pursuit of their flying foes, they found 
 him crying like a squaw over the carcass of the 
 animal. 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 159 
 
 When the people heard this concerning Nu 
 Zhinga, an angry cry, like that of a strong wind in 
 a thicket, passed over the multitude gathered about 
 the braves. " Let him go work with the squaws! " 
 they cried. And the unanimous cry of a people is 
 a law. 
 
 So Nu Zhinga, the squaw-hearted, carried water 
 and wood with the women and was patient. At least 
 he had Tabea ever near him, which was like living 
 in the light of perpetual sunrise, and hope, like an 
 incurable disease, would not leave his breast. 
 
 The old woman Gunthai seeing how more than 
 squaw-hearted her son had grown, sat in her lodge 
 weaving the baskets of willow. But the hope of her 
 heart was gone. How she had dreamed of the prow 
 ess of her little man! How he would be mighty 
 among his people; mighty with the arm that is piti 
 less and strong a slayer of enemies ! But now 
 and the old woman s thought would check itself at 
 that barren gulch in the hills through which Death 
 comes like a blast of bitter winds, for she could see 
 no further. 
 
 So the suns came and went; but there was night 
 for her in the brightest noon; the seasons passed, 
 but for her heart there was cold, even in the kind 
 midsummer. 
 
 One day in the time of the cubs (December) it 
 happened that a child of the village was stricken 
 with a mysterious sickness. The fierce heat of the 
 time of the sunflowers blazed in its blood. Its eyes 
 
160 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 glowed with the brightness of a burning thing. Its 
 lips muttered strange words that were not the words 
 of men; and those who listened, trembled. And 
 after some time, the whole burning body of the child 
 became one mass of sores. 
 
 It was then that Washkahee,the big medicine-man, 
 came to the lodge of the sick, sang his most potent 
 songs and performed his most mysterious rites. But 
 one day the child leaped to its feet and stared at the 
 wall with eyes that were glazed with terror; then 
 shrieked and fell back limply into its blankets. And 
 when the winter had crept into its burning blood, 
 they buried it upon a hill; and the wonder of the 
 village was great. 
 
 But the end was not yet. Another and another 
 crept into his blankets, stricken with the same sick 
 ness. Then another and another, until from many 
 lodges came the moans of the afflicted. Those who 
 dwelt in the lodges where the scourge entered, fled 
 from their stricken kinsmen as from the visible body 
 of Death. They who could laugh back at the chal 
 lenge of the Sioux, quailed before the subtle creeping 
 of this invisible foe. They who were as yet un 
 touched by the unseen Hand, huddled terrified and 
 speechless about their fires, in the light of which they 
 stared at each other and found each face ghastly, as 
 though it were the mirror of their dread. 
 
 In the stillness of their bated breaths they heard 
 the lonesome monotony of the winter wind and the 
 swish of the drifting snow, through the drone of 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 161 
 
 which pierced like arrows of ice the occasional shrieks 
 of the deserted dying or those who battled with gro 
 tesque terrors in the giddy whirl of feverish delirium. 
 
 With trembling fingers the women bound blankets 
 closely across the doors of the lodges, in the hope 
 of barring out the black spirit that wandered about 
 the village. Vain hope ! Through the walls of the 
 strongest lodge crept the subtle spirit. 
 
 One night the sound of a wild voice crying 
 through the storm beat into the lodges : 
 
 " Washkahee has cried to Wakunda [God] and 
 lo ! Washkahee has dreamed ! Only a tuft of hair 
 from the head of the white bison can save us! So 
 spoke the dream to Washkahee; who will seek the 
 white bison? " 
 
 It was as though the winter wind had found 
 words ! The people, huddled about their fires, knew 
 the voice to be that of the big medicine-man, Wash 
 kahee, yet they did not move. The bravest had 
 become weak as a child at the back of a squaw. 
 
 That night Nu Zhinga, lying in the lodge of his 
 mother, heard the cry that came out of the storm; 
 and when he slept he dreamed. He had walked far 
 across the white prairie and his legs were aching with 
 toil and his heart with despair. Then there broke 
 upon his dream a mighty roar, and lo ! he saw, charg 
 ing down upon him, the white bison, tossing the 
 crusted snow from its lowered horns. 
 
 "Tae Ska! Tae Ska!" (white bison) Nu 
 Zhinga cried, and was awakened by his own voice. 
 
1 62 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 So in the early light of the morning, Nu Zhinga 
 took down the bow and arrows of his father, and 
 wrapping himself in a buffalo robe, he strode out 
 into the prairie with his tame wolf trotting at his 
 heels. To him the dream was an omen. Might he 
 not find the white bison, and thus drive death from 
 among his people? 
 
 As he walked, the dream that had ever crept like 
 a slow music through his blood, grew into the sway 
 ing fury of a battle-song. He timed his brisk steps 
 with a joyous chant that echoed up the frosty valleys. 
 He would find the white bison! Then his people 
 would shout his name without derision. Gunthai 
 would be glad; Tabea would be glad. Tabea! 
 The word was music. 
 
 But meanwhile in the village thicker and thicker 
 fell the invisible arrows of the Terror; and in the 
 lodges where they fell dwelt the cry of agony and 
 delirium and the muffled shriek of death. The old 
 woman Gunthai and the cripple Tabea were not 
 spared. The old and the young, the weak and the 
 strong, the brave and the cowardly found no spell 
 to ward away the stroke of the hidden Hand. 
 
 At length the fear of the tribe grew into a frenzy. 
 It needed but an incident to lash it into madness. 
 
 One evening as the night crept westward across 
 the hills, a brave leaped upon a pony and yelling 
 sent the frightened animal flying up the valley. He 
 was fleeing from the curse that hung over the village. 
 Then the fear became a madness. The people 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 163 
 
 rushed from their lodges and, fighting for the near 
 est pony, fled after the lone rider who had disap 
 peared into the night 
 
 Those who were too weak or too unfortunate to 
 gain the back of a pony hung to the mane and were 
 dragged in the snow until their grips weakened, when 
 they ran with frantic shrieks after their disappearing 
 tribesmen. The valley leading from the village be 
 came choked with the fleeing people. Many of the 
 stricken leaped from their blankets and followed in 
 the wild rout, until their knees weakened and their 
 brains swam, when they lay shrieking in the snow 
 until death came. 
 
 From the deserted village the cries of the helpless 
 followed the unhearing refugees, who fled as the 
 bison flee when the pitiless hunter follows. Fainter 
 and fainter grew the yelling until it was swallowed 
 up in the wind that lashed the spraying snow. When 
 the morning looked into the valley, it found no 
 smoke arising from the silent lodges. Only the dead 
 were there; the dead and the winter. 
 
 On the evening of the second day after the flight 
 of the tribe, a lone form topped the hill above the 
 village and looked down into the still white valley, 
 where lay the snow-choked lodges, quiet as a dream. 
 The form was short, and bent as with the toil and 
 hunger of a long, hard trail. At its heels a gaunt, 
 grey wolf limped and whimpered with the ache of 
 emptiness and the frost. 
 
 The short, bent form stood still upon the summit 
 
1 64 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 and shading its eyes with a hand that trembled, cast 
 a long and searching gaze upon the lodges of his 
 people. No smoke, no voice, no roar of fires, 
 scented with the evening meal ! 
 
 The form straightened itself and stood with head 
 thrown back, making a thin and pitiful figure against 
 the cruel white glare of the icy evening sky. It put 
 a hand to its mouth, trumpet-wise, and raising the 
 other above its head, waved about a tuft of long, 
 grey hair. 
 
 " Tae Ska ! Tae Ska ! " 
 
 The voice was scarcely raised above a faint, dry 
 wheeze that sighed dirge-like above the lifeless val 
 ley. The grey wolf with its four trembling legs 
 drawn together in the snow, raised its frost-whitened 
 muzzle to the fading sky and with a long, wild wail 
 drowned the feebler voice of its master. 
 
 With limping stride, grown short and uncertain 
 as the first steps of a papoose, the form went down 
 the hillside and entered the village where the Winter 
 dwelt. 
 
 " Tae Ska ! Tae Ska ! I have found the white 
 bison!" 
 
 The wheezing voice passed among the lodges like 
 a mournful wind that haunts the lonesome places of 
 a bluff. Round and round the village went the man 
 and the wolf, crying into the silent lodges; and the 
 man s face was wolf like with weariness and hunger; 
 and the wolf s eyes were grown half human with the 
 pinch of emptiness and frost. 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 165 
 
 " Why do you not come forth, for I have suffered 
 and I have the tuft of hair? No more shall the 
 black spirits dwell among us! Come forth and look 
 upon the face of him whose heart was the heart of 
 a squaw ! " 
 
 The crisp snow whined beneath his step and the 
 wolf whined beside him. At last the form stopped 
 before a lodge and with a trembling hand drew away 
 the covering at the entrance. 
 
 It was the lodge of Gunthai. Two forms lay 
 within, huddled in their blankets, and the snows had 
 drifted about them. The man pulled the blankets 
 from their faces. One was Gunthai and the other 
 Tabea. Each was pinched with the pinch of death 
 and winter, and the mystery of the last long, lone 
 some trail was about them both. 
 
 With a moan the form tottered and fell upon its 
 face in the snow. And over all the valley there were 
 but two sounds the wail of the winter wind and the 
 howl of a lone wolf. 
 
 Days passed, and the people who had fled from 
 home with the pitiless scourge at their heels grew 
 faint and weary with their wandering, and at last 
 the homeache drove them back upon their trail. 
 Footsore, famished, racked with the now dead terror, 
 they toiled in silence homeward, where they could die 
 with the sound of their own fires in their ears. 
 
 At last one morning a lone rider cautiously peered 
 from under the brow of the hill upon the village. 
 Nothing moved below. He urged his emaciated 
 
1 66 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 pony to the summit of the hill and stopping, gazed 
 again, shading his eyes with a hand grown weak and 
 thin. There seemed nothing in the valley to fear. 
 Turning about upon his pony, he raised his arms in 
 the light of dawn and cried back into the valley be 
 yond to the waiting remnant of his people a long, 
 exultant cry, for he had looked upon his home. 
 
 Slowly the returning tribe, now dwindled to half 
 its former numbers, toiled up the hill. Only the 
 strong were left, and now the strong were weak. 
 The straggling band of men, women and ponies 
 reached the summit, a pitiful, ragged multitude, and 
 gazed for a moment into the valley. Then a great 
 shout arose above the silent spaces, scintillant under 
 the dawn, as the halting, famished band swooped 
 down the hill to be again at home. 
 
 Again the fires roared upward from the lodges, 
 and the voices of a happy people drove away the 
 silence of the winter. There was no longer any dis 
 ease; the winter and the flight had purged the tribe. 
 
 Who had saved them from the black spirits? 
 Could a tribe run faster than the things which are 
 not good? 
 
 The sun was at the centre of its short path when 
 the answer to this question of the tribe broke into 
 the lodges where the people sat about their steaming 
 kettles. For it was then that one ran through the 
 village waving a tuft of long, grey hair and startling 
 the ears of his people with a shout : 
 
 " See 1 The tuft of hair from the head of the 
 
THE END OF THE DREAM 167 
 
 white bison ! It has saved us; for do you not remem 
 ber the words of Washkahee? " 
 
 The people rushed from their lodges and thronged 
 about the man who held the tuft of hair. 
 
 " Who has found the white bison? " they cried. 
 
 And the answer of him who held the tuft of hair 
 struck the people silent with wonder: 
 
 "It was Nu Zhinga, the squaw-hearted; even he 
 who could not dream a dream 1 " 
 
XI 
 THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 
 
 "There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep," 
 said De Marsay. Balzac. 
 
 OH, shut up, Hank! Dang it! Hain t you 
 goin to let a feller sleep none? How can 
 I be strong enough to keep from snivellin 
 in the mornin , if I don t get my sleep? " 
 
 A small man with a thin, weak face, that might 
 have suggested the vacuous countenance of a sheep 
 had it not been for an expression of anguish and 
 childish petulance, sat up among a bunch of furs 
 in the corner of the cabin. He supported himself 
 tremblingly upon an arm and stared with watery, 
 haggard eyes upon Hank, who regarded him wist 
 fully. 
 
 Hank was a big man and raw-boned. His big, 
 quiet, hirsute face contrasted strongly with the face 
 of the other. About his waist hung a belt contain 
 ing a pair of six-shooters. Since the dark had fallen 
 he had been pacing nervously back and forth across 
 the cabin floor, his eyebrows knit, his face twitching, 
 now and then offering a soft word of comfort to 
 the little man who lay among the furs in the corner 
 breathing fitfully. 
 
 " Cuss your hide, Hank! You know I hain t 
 
 168 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 169 
 
 slep none for a week, and you go on a-trampin and 
 a-gabbin till you got me all on needles ! Why can t 
 you leave me be? O damn it! " 
 
 The last words were more like a sob than a curse ; 
 and the white, thin face and quivering lips seemed 
 too impotent for the words. Hank stopped pacing 
 up and down, and with his fists resting upon his hips 
 he stared at the little man. 
 
 " Now, Sheep," he drawled kindly, " you hain t 
 got no call to talk that away. Hain t I tryin to be 
 your friend to the finish? I was just thinkin to cheer 
 you up so s you d make a respect ble, manly hangin . 
 I didn t go to rile you." 
 
 The little man thus addressed as " Sheep " drew 
 himself up into a shivering bunch among the furs 
 and groaned. The big man shook his head slowly 
 and sat down, leaning against the wall of the cabin. 
 " Pore Sheep," he muttered. 
 
 For an hour he sat with his chin in his hands, 
 staring with pitying eyes upon the huddled little 
 man, who now and again shook with shuddering 
 sobs. The candle flame flickered dismally in the 
 night wind that came in through the chinks in the 
 wall. 
 
 At length a series of stifled groans grew up among 
 the furs, accompanied by a spasmodic jerking of the 
 limbs of the little man. With a deep sigh he sat up. 
 With an imbecile droop of the lower jaw, and eyes 
 that burned feverishly with utter horror, he stared 
 at his companion. 
 
1 7 o THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 "O cuss you, Hank! " he broke out querulously, 
 " why can t you talk none? You goin to let me 
 keep a-slippin down, down, down right into hell 
 and never say a word to me ? What you settin there 
 like a bump on a log for? " 
 
 " W y, Sheep," said the big man kindly; " thought 
 you was tryin to snooze." 
 
 " Snooze ! How can I snooze with a million little 
 devils runnin up and down my backbone and a- 
 dancin all over my head? You knowed I couldn t 
 sleep ! You knowed I hain t slep for a week ! 
 Snooze! O damn it! Hain t I goin to get plenty 
 of snoozin when they drag the cart out from n 
 under me in the mornin ? " 
 
 Sheep s voice broke; the fire went out of his eyes; 
 his teeth chattered as though a sudden gust of winter 
 had struck him. 
 
 " Now, Sheep," said Hank, " don t be so riled up 
 like. I know it s hard to go out that away; but it 
 won t last long, and it can t hurt much after the first 
 jerk. I reckon it don t matter much how a feller 
 goes out after he s gone." 
 
 " Oh, shut that up ! " 
 
 The little man leaned against the wall and closed 
 his eyes. After a considerable silence the big man 
 produced a flask of liquor and spoke soothingly. 
 
 "Want a drink, Sheepy, old man? " 
 
 The little man leaped up with a glimmer of hope 
 in his eyes. 
 
 " Course I do! What made you keep a-hidin 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 171 
 
 it when you knowed all along that s what I been 
 wantin ?" 
 
 He grasped the flask and drank with great eager 
 gulps until it was empty. Then he sat down against 
 the cabin wall, staring fixedly at the candle flame. 
 The empty, sheepish, cowardly face began to gain 
 expression as the liquor mounted to his head. A 
 light of fearlessness began to grow in his eyes. Lines 
 appeared and deepened in his thin face, suggesting 
 at once a certain degree of mastery and infinite malev 
 olence. The wolf that lurks somewhere in the 
 fastness of every man s soul had come forth and 
 routed the sheep. 
 
 " What in thunder you doin with all that heavy 
 artillery hangin to you, Hank? Take em off! I 
 don t need no guards. Who said I was thinkin of 
 breakin camp? I hain t tryin to run, am I? Damn 
 me, I m glad I done it and I m a-goin to walk right 
 straight into hell a-grinnin ! Sheep, am I?" 
 
 The little man laughed a strange laugh that had 
 the snarl of a mad wolf in it; a moment since he had 
 been bleating like a scared lamb. 
 
 * You set there and listen. Sheep, sheep, sheep ! 
 That s what they all been a-callin me, but when I 
 get done tellin you about it, I guess you won t call 
 me no sheep. Hain t a danged one of you big fellers 
 as would Ve done it up better n me! 
 
 You ve knowed me quite a spell, Hank; and you 
 never knowed no bad of me till now, did you ? And I 
 hain t had any easy trail most of the time neither. 
 
1 72 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 When I was jest a little feller goin to country school 
 back East, the other fellers always picked onto me 
 cause I was so easy to pick onto. Never had a fight 
 in my life. Always scared to death of fightin ; 
 sucked it in with my mother s milk, I guess. Used 
 to get off alone and bawl cause I couldn t make 
 myself fight. 
 
 " Never was a real boy; always a kind of a stray 
 sheep, bleatin around in lonesome places. Guess 
 I must look like a sheep ; anyway the boys called me 
 that ; and it stuck. Pretty hard bein a sheep amongst 
 wolves, Hank! 
 
 " I was always shy and easy scared, Hank. I 
 never owned it to a livin man before; but a man is 
 like to say things just before he goes out for good 
 that he wouldn t say before. 
 
 " You knowed oF man Leclerc, didn t you? Her 
 dad, you know. Used to live down-river half a day s 
 hard walkin . I reckon that oF man was about the 
 best friend I ever had, ceptin you, Hank. Kind of 
 seemed to understand me like. Wonder if he s 
 hearin me now! Don t give a damn if he is! He 
 knowed it wasn t in me to be bad, and he knows I 
 done right. I tell you, Hank, I ain t scared, nor 
 shamed nor nothin . Damn me, I can see Donahan 
 a-dyin yet, and it does me good, Hank! Does me 
 good!" 
 
 The little man s eyes blazed, and his face seemed 
 to take fire from them. But the light died as quickly 
 as it was kindled, like a fire in too little fuel whipped 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 173 
 
 by a wind too strong. A soft light of reminiscence 
 lingered where the fiercer glow had died. 
 
 u Used to go down there pretty often when I 
 could; part to see the oF man, and most to see his 
 girl. Nice little thing, Hank; awful nice little thing! 
 Don t you think so? Good as an angel, too, but 
 weak like a woman can be. I hain t nothin again 
 her, Hank so help me God, I hain t ! I wasn t the 
 man for her. She d ought to Ve had a big, strong, 
 quiet feller what wasn t afraid of the devil. Some 
 feller like you, Hank or Donahan. 
 
 " Oh, let the hottest fires in hell eat Donahan ! " 
 
 The little man shook with a passion that seemed 
 grotesque, because it was too big for him. 
 
 " And I kep goin down there, and goin down 
 there, till I begun to be happy, Hank. Begun to 
 thinkin part of this world was made for me. Begun 
 to thinkin about havin a woman and babies; and 
 somehow I got to feelin bigger and stronger, and 
 not sneakin any more. 
 
 " Feared like the girl liked me. Never had 
 nothin to do with no woman cept my mother, you 
 know. Oh, Hank, why can t a feller be a man when 
 he wants to so bad? I dunno. I tried. 
 
 " Well, one time I went down there and oP man 
 Leclerc was pretty sick. Said he was a-goin to die 
 sure thing. Wheezin already and pickin at the 
 blankets. Calls me up to him, and after he got 
 done tellin me what he was goin to do d rectly, he 
 says : * Sheep, my boy, I ve brought her up as near 
 
174 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 like a French lady as I knowed how. She hain t 
 able to hustle for herself, and well, ain t she a 
 pretty girl? Why the devil don t you ask me for 
 her? 
 
 " And I asked, and the oP man said yes, and 
 that was his last word, cept * God be with both of 
 you. Took all his breath to say that, seemed like. 
 
 " And so I saw the oP man under ground and 
 come up here with the girl. Got the missionary, 
 Father Donahan, to do the tyin . (Oh, damn him!) 
 And then I begun to be happy. Seemed like God 
 heard the oP man for a spell, tho his voice was weak 
 when he said it. Now I guess mebbe he didn t hear. 
 Does he always hear, Hank? " 
 
 " Dunno," muttered the big man, who sat with 
 his face in his hands; " seems like He ain t out here 
 t all, sometimes." 
 
 " Oh, shut up, will you?" peevishly snapped the 
 little man. " Le me talk! You got plenty of time 
 for talkin ! Le me talk, will you? " 
 
 The big man sighed, and the other continued 
 rapidly in a sort of a dazed sing-song voice with 
 little inflection in it, like a man in a trance. 
 
 " Big change come over me then; better man all 
 round. Factor saw it and sent me on some long 
 trips; seemed to trust me more n before. But I 
 always done the longest trips in the shortest poss ble 
 time. Doted on that girl wife, and I guess I was 
 about the happiest feller that ever cussed a pack 
 mule. Used to like to set around the cabin when I 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 175 
 
 could and watch her skip about the place makin 
 things comfort ble like a woman can when she s a 
 mind. 
 
 " And by and by I was happier n ever. That was 
 when the little boy come. Cute little feller, that 
 boy was. Don t you mind? Had blue eyes, and that 
 tickled me half to death, cause black eyes is the rule 
 in my fambly and hers, and it seemed like God was 
 tryin to be kind to me. 
 
 ;< When Father Donahan christened the young n, 
 I drawed his attention to them blue eyes and Dona 
 han (no, I ain t goin to call him Father no more, 
 cause if he was a priest, he was a priest of the 
 devil!) What was I sayin ?" 
 
 At the sound of Donahan s name upon his own 
 lips, the little man s face writhed into malevolent 
 contortions. 
 
 " What was I sayin ? " he repeated dazedly. 
 
 " Blue eyes," suggested Hank. 
 
 " Quit breakin in onto me that away! " snapped 
 the little man peevishly. " And when I showed him 
 the blue eyes, Donahan grinned and said, Yes, God 
 had been very kind. And it did look like it, 
 didn t it? 
 
 u Donahan named the boy; asked me if I d let him. 
 Called him James for a front name and Donahan for 
 a middle one. Well, things went along smooth until 
 one day the little feller died. Made me feel pretty 
 bad like to tore my heart out. But Donahan he 
 come and cried too, and that helped. Always helps 
 
i?6 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 to have somebody feel bad with you ; don t you think 
 so? 
 
 " After that things dragged on like they have a 
 way of doin . I kep on tryin to be like a man. But 
 the girl, she seemed to be takin it pretty hard. Got 
 stranger and stranger toward me, like as if she didn t 
 care for me no more. Donahan used to come in 
 often and console her, and she seemed to brighten 
 up at them times cause she was always strong on 
 the religion business. That s what made her so 
 good, I guess. 
 
 " But by and by there was goin to be another 
 youngster, and I kind of got into the way of whistlin 
 again somehow. Got to thinkin how it d be a boy 
 with blue eyes like the one that died. About that 
 time the Factor sent me off on a long trip. Hated 
 to go, but it couldn t be helped. You d ought to 
 seen me travel, Hank! Wantin to get back, you 
 know; feared all the time mebbe she was sick and 
 a-wantin me. Made a quick trip quicker n most 
 big men could, Hank. And when I come in sight 
 of home, I was that glad that I couldn t feel my feet 
 and legs achin . 
 
 " It was night when I got back, and I thought 
 I d just take a peep in at the winder before I went 
 in; light was shinin out so home-like. You know 
 how a boy looks a long time at a big, red apple be 
 fore he eats it; gettin his eyes full of it before he 
 fills his belly? That was like me. 
 
 "I crep up and looked in; winder was raised a 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 177 
 
 little. I could see Donahan inside and he was talkin 
 soft and low. 
 
 " Hope it ll have blue eyes, he was sayin ; * blue 
 eyes like mine. And that made me love Donahan 
 more, cause it was just what I was a-wishin myself. 
 Talked along quite a spell, and me watchin outside, 
 all the time pityin Donahan cause he couldn t never 
 have no little woman like that and a youngster with 
 blue eyes. 
 
 " And the talkin growed into a mumble and hum 
 like as if I was a-dreamin it all in a happy dream; 
 until all to oncet some of the words leaped out of the 
 hum, and stood out clear like so many candle flames 
 a-burnin into my head, and a-scorchin my backbone, 
 and a-settin the whole world afire with bloody light. 
 
 " I held onto the winder sill to keep from fallin 
 down, and this is what I heard : Sometimes I feel 
 sorry for the pore sheep ; and I ve spent many nights 
 prayin to God about it and askin him to forgive 
 me. Then when I see you again, it all comes back 
 and the prayers are no more than so many curses. 
 What d you ever marry that sheep for? Curse the 
 day that I was made a priest ! 
 
 " And then the words seemed to get muffled, only 
 now and then I could hear some of em plain, and 
 every one of em was like a big man s fist drivin* 
 into my face and a-beatin my eyes full of blood." 
 
 The little man covered his face with his hands 
 and sobbed. 
 
 " O, I ain t a-blamin her, Hank," he blubbered. 
 
178 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " Never was a better woman. I ain t blamin 
 her." 
 
 He rocked himself back and forth for some time. 
 His sobbing ceased. Suddenly he raised his face 
 and the flames of hell glittered in his tear-washed 
 eyes. 
 
 " I m a white-livered coward, so I didn t go in 
 and kill him. He was a big man, and I ain t no 
 fighter. I run; don t know why. Didn t feel sore 
 nor achy in my legs no more. I run and run and run 
 till my breath give out, then I fell down and the 
 stars swum round and went out. Then after awhile 
 I was up and walkin , and nothin would stand still. 
 Things danced round and round me and the air was 
 full of little spiteful, spittin lights and sounds like 
 devils a-laughin . And by and by I come to ol man 
 Leclerc s place. Don t know why I went there. 
 Nothin there but the place. 
 
 " I went in and laid down on the floor all broke 
 up. And when I went to sleep, I dreamed of killin 
 Donahan. I woke up and it was mornin . 
 
 " First thing I heard was the rattle of some Red 
 River carts goin north. I guess it was the devil that 
 whispered somethin in my ear then. I run out and 
 told a big lie to the bull-whackers. Man a-dyin in 
 here ! Go as fast as you can to the next post and tell 
 Father Donahan to come down to see the pore 
 devil through with it ! 
 
 " Guess I looked like I d been settin up for a 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 179 
 
 week, so the bull-whackers believed it and went on 
 north a-whackin their bulls into a swingin trot. 
 
 " Well, Donahan come all right." 
 
 Here the little man lapsed into a stubborn silence. 
 He leaned against the wall and for several hours 
 there was no sound in the cabin but that of heavy 
 breathing. 
 
 At length Hank got up and walked over to the 
 little window. A dull grey blur had grown up in 
 the East. It would soon be time. Hank sighed. 
 
 Suddenly the little man was aroused from his 
 lethargy as though he had heard a shout. He began 
 talking rapidly. 
 
 " I stood behind the door of the cabin, and when 
 he come in I downed him with a club. Then I tied 
 his hands and his feet and fastened him to the floor. 
 I sat beside him and spit in his face till he come to 
 a-groanin . And it was a couple days before he could 
 talk sense or knowed who I was. 
 
 " And he begged and he cussed, but I didn t say 
 nothin . He got hungry; so I chawed at some pem- 
 mican I had left from the trip so s he d get hungrier. 
 He got thirsty; so I drank more n I wanted so s 
 he d get thirstier. 
 
 " Said he d get me into heaven for just one sup 
 of water; so I went out with my cup; I filled it with 
 dust ; I put it to his lips. 
 
 " Said he d send me to hell if I didn t give him 
 just one drop. So I give him more dust. And by and 
 
1 8o THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 by he got luny like, and cussed like a bull-whacker 
 and whined like a sick woman by turns. 
 
 "God, Hank! How that man hung on! 
 
 " And by and by he seemed to get a little sense for 
 a spell, and he yelled out : He had blue eyes, 
 didn t he? Look at mine! And I cuffed him in 
 the mouth till his teeth was bloody, cause his eyes 
 was blue." 
 
 The little man hesitated. Suddenly an expression 
 of supreme terror came over his face. The wolf 
 was dead the frightened sheep looked out of his 
 eyes. There was a sound of footsteps. The shabby 
 light of early dawn had already cheapened the glow 
 of the guttered candle. 
 
 The door opened a priest entered. 
 
 The little man gave a yell of terror and shrank 
 into his corner. 
 
 " Take it away, Hank! " he screamed. " Take 
 it away! " 
 
 Hank spoke a few words into the ear of the priest, 
 who muttered a prayer and went out. For some 
 time the little man stared appealingly into the eyes 
 of the bigger man. When he spoke his voice was 
 husky and low: " Won t you look after the woman 
 a little, Hank? If it s got blue eyes " 
 
 There was now a sound of other footsteps ap 
 proaching. The little man gasped like one who has 
 suddenly been thrust into cold water. 
 
 " Oh, Hank ! " he moaned ; " hold me tight. Don t 
 let em take me ! They ll stand me in the cart under 
 
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 181 
 
 a tree and they ll put the rope around my neck and 
 they ll drag the cart away! Oh!" 
 
 The footsteps were now very near the door. The 
 little man on a sudden became very quiet. He bit 
 nervously at his finger-tips. His body stiffened. His 
 face seemed transparent. 
 
 When the sound of a hand at the latch was heard, 
 his jaw dropped nervelessly. He stared upon the 
 soon-to-be-opened door with wide, dilated eyes, in 
 which all that had been human was burned to dust. 
 
XII 
 THE MARK OF SHAME 
 
 IN the old times there were two brothers, Seha 
 and Ishneda; and because of hate for him, 
 they did many acts of unkindness to a man 
 whose name was Shonga Saba. 
 
 And one night a man was killed and the man was 
 Ishneda. So with the coming of the light, a whisper 
 ran about the village, saying " Shonga Saba has 
 killed." And the whisper was true; for Shonga Saba 
 sat in his lodge all day, speaking no word. And 
 when any came to speak, he lifted his lip in a bad 
 way and snarled. A sick wolf does so. 
 
 It happened that morning that some hunters went 
 forth, for it was the time for the hunting of bison 
 and the tribe was resting on the trail. And when 
 the hunters returned, their eyes were like the eyes 
 of a scared deer. They told a story that frightened 
 the people. They had shot at three elk and their 
 aim was true; but the arrows came out on the other 
 side bloodless. And the elk changed into wolves, 
 running away very swiftly. 
 
 So they who were wise saw famine coming. They 
 recalled old times; how the game had often failed 
 after a murder. For the spirit of the dead man 
 makes it so. And the wise old men told these things, 
 
 182 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 183 
 
 and the old women said it had been so; they 
 remembered. 
 
 So there was a space of little speaking, for Fear 
 sat upon tongues. 
 
 When the sun was going down, the people gath 
 ered about the big chief s tepee where the fathers 
 were sitting with great thoughts. They did not 
 smoke nor talk. They shivered as the long shadows 
 crept out of the hills yet it was the brown hot 
 time. 
 
 And when it was dusk a chief made words which 
 were whispers: "Let a wachoobay [holy man] 
 take strong weapons and travel the back trail till the 
 middle of the night, that he may meet the spirit 
 that comes and kill it; for Famine walks with the 
 spirit that comes, and there shall be the wailing of 
 children and many flat bellies." 
 
 And the wachoobay went forth with strong 
 weapons. He took the back trail ; he looked straight 
 ahead. And the people stared after him until the dark 
 came between, as he walked to meet the two comers. 
 
 Then the chief s voice went over the people in the 
 darkness, for the fires were not lit; an enemy was 
 coming, and there is safety in darkness : " Let him 
 who killed come among us." So one went and 
 brought the man. 
 
 He stood among the people, felt but not seen; 
 and with him came a sobbing that grew into 
 words: " I, Shonga Saba, am here; and I have 
 killed. Have my people seen a bison bull stung with 
 
1 84 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 a fly until he tore the earth with his horns? It was 
 so. After a long time of heat the storm comes out 
 of the night ; It does angry deeds, and in the morning 
 it is past. It was so. My breast aches. I struck 
 my enemy, but myself I struck also. Something has 
 died within me. So I go to do as the others have 
 done. I will take the punishment." 
 
 And though the people did not hear nor see him 
 go, they knew that he was gone. That night only 
 the children slept. 
 
 When Shonga Saba reached his tepee, he did that 
 which was the custom. He cut his hair, he took off 
 his garments, he smeared his forehead with mud. 
 Of tears and dust he made the mud. Upon his fore 
 head he put the mark of his shame. 
 
 From the peak of his tepee, where the smoke 
 comes out, he tore the rawhide flap. It was black 
 ened with the smoke of many fires. About his 
 shoulders he bound it; and it was the garment of 
 his shame. 
 
 And then he went forth from the camp. He 
 pitched a lonesome tepee without the circle of his 
 people; for thus he should live four summers and 
 four winters. It was the custom. 
 
 And in the first light his woman came to him with 
 water and cooked meat. Also, she brought moan 
 ing. Shonga Saba spoke no word nor looked up. 
 The mud of tears and dust was upon his forehead, 
 and the blackened garment of shame was upon his 
 shoulders. There was a lump in his throat; but the 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 185 
 
 water did not wash it away. There was an empti 
 ness in him; but the meat did not fill it. And when 
 he cut the meat, which was well cooked, the man 
 groaned, for blood ran forth and made the food 
 look like a wound. 
 
 Again the tribe took up the trail; they wanted to 
 find the bison, for there was little meat. And the 
 man followed at the distance of an arrow s flight 
 behind his moving people, for such was the custom. 
 But no thunder of bison came from the brown 
 valleys where the trail went; neither was there any 
 dust cloud of pawing hoofs. And the old women 
 remembered old-time famines, and their hands 
 trembled as they pitched the tepees in the dusk that 
 ended the day s toil. 
 
 And in the mornings the old men gazed into the 
 shining distance, looking from under their hands 
 with eyes that glared as in battle. And all day, 
 sweating and toiling on the trail, the people ate the 
 distance with hungry eyes. 
 
 Round bellies flattened; for the evil days had 
 come. 
 
 And the man who had killed saw all this. He 
 too walked with hunger and something bigger than 
 the food-wish. Also lonesomeness was ever by his 
 side. In the nights he felt the mark upon his fore 
 head like the sting of an angry knife ; and the smoke- 
 flap was as a fire upon his shoulders. 
 
 And one night he said: " I have brought these 
 days of toiling without food upon my people. It 
 
1 86 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 was for this that my mother groaned at my coming. 
 I should have been the food of wolves on that day 
 when my eyes were not yet open. I will go away, 
 for evil walks with me, and my feet scatter trouble 
 in the trail. My woman is as one who has no man, 
 and my children are as a stranger s children. I will 
 walk far and seek peace among other peoples, 
 among strange hills and valleys." 
 
 And he went in the night. 
 
 He was far into the lonesome places and it was 
 morning. He was weak with the night walking, for 
 famine had made him thin. So he lifted his face and 
 his hands to the sun. His palms he turned to the 
 young light and he spoke earnest words to the Spirit : 
 " Wakunda, trouble have I met, and trouble have 
 my people met through me. Help me to walk in the 
 good trail ! " 
 
 And as he said the words, a cloud passed across 
 the sun ; it was like a smutch of mud across a shining 
 forehead. The man who had killed, groaned. He 
 hid his face in the grass that he might not see the 
 mark of his shame. But as the day grew older the 
 hunger pinched more, and the man got up, set his 
 face away from the sun, and went on further into 
 the lonesome places. And in the evening he killed 
 a rabbit with his bow and arrows. And as the rabbit 
 leaped up at the sting of the arrow, it made a pitiful 
 sound like that of a man struck deep with a knife 
 in his sleep. 
 
 And the man fled, for a strange sickness had 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 187 
 
 gripped him. The mark upon his forehead burned, 
 and the smoke-flap was as a heavy burden upon his 
 shoulders. 
 
 In the last light he found wild turnips and ate. 
 They could not cry out; they could not bleed. And 
 then sleep came, but not rest. While his body slept, 
 his spirit killed Ishneda over and over again. And 
 he saw the first light with haggard eyes. 
 
 And when he had eaten again of the wild turnips 
 he said: "I will go to the village of the Poncas; 
 they will take me in, for I will speak soft words." 
 That day he travelled, and the next and the next. 
 But two others had travelled faster than he Famine 
 and the Story of his bad deed; for none travel so 
 fast as these. And these two had travelled across 
 the prairie together. 
 
 And after much walking, Shonga Saba came to 
 the top of a hill and turned hungry eyes upon the 
 Ponca village in the valley. It was the time when 
 the old day throws big shadows. He stood thin, 
 bent against the sky. The smoke-flap at his shoul 
 ders lifted in the wind that the eyes in the valley 
 might see. 
 
 And a dead hush crept over the village ; the sound 
 of children died; the people disappeared. Full of 
 wonder and fear, the lean, lonesome one walked with 
 halting step down the dry hillside. He entered the 
 village, and it was as a place where all are dead. 
 
 He came to the centre of the village. He lifted 
 his palms and made a piteous cry, which was like a 
 
1 88 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 dry wind moving in a wilderness. And then the 
 head of an old man was thrust forth from a tent- 
 flap, and from it came a husky voice: " Begone, O 
 Bringer of Famine! " 
 
 And the man went forth. His head was bent, 
 his shoulders stooped as with a weight. He walked 
 far and met the Night. He lay down in its shadow. 
 His forehead ached, and the smoke-flap was as a 
 burning brand. And in the darkness he made a cry: 
 Wakunda, very far have I walked seeking peace; 
 but it has fled before me. Help me to find the good 
 trail!" 
 
 He was very tired, and on a sudden it was day 
 again, and the dew was upon him. He found wild 
 turnips and ate. He drank at a little creek that ran 
 very thin among dying reeds. Then he walked, he 
 knew not where. But now and then he whispered 
 bitter words into the lonesome air: " In the land of 
 the spirits is peace; there I would walk, but I can 
 not find the trail." 
 
 The day was very hot. The prairie wavered in 
 the heat; the bugs droned; the light wind sighed in 
 the dry grasses like a thirsty thing. The far hills 
 seemed floating in a lake of thin oil. They looked 
 lean and hungry, yellow as with a fever; and upon 
 their sides the dry earth was broken like old sores. 
 
 Into the heat-drone the man sent his sighing. His 
 feet were heavy; he wished to die, he wished to die. 
 
 And when the day was past the highest place, a 
 rumbling grew below the rim of the earth, like the 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 189 
 
 galloping of many bison a sound of anger. And a 
 cloud arose, black and flashing with fires across its 
 front. The sky was as an eye of fever and the cloud 
 closed slowly over it like a big eyelid. 
 
 Then a hush fell. There was no moving of air, 
 no droning of bugs. The prairie held its breath; 
 and the cloud came on. It moved in silence. It 
 threw long, ragged arms ahead of it, long, eager 
 arms. And out of it leaped flames, like the spurt 
 and sputter of a wind-blown camp fire in the night. 
 
 And in the hush the man heard strange sounds on 
 a sudden. There was a crying and a shouting of 
 battle cries. He reached the bald top of a hill and 
 saw below him a fighting of many warriors. Bitterly 
 they fought, as wolves fight in hunger. There was 
 the lifting and falling of war clubs, the shrieking of 
 arrows. Sounds of horror cut the big stillness like 
 many knives. 
 
 And the man s heart leaped with joy for here 
 was death; this was the beginning of the trail that 
 led to peace. 
 
 With a cry he rushed from the summit. He ran 
 with very young legs to meet Death, for he wished 
 to die. 
 
 But on a sudden the warring bands ceased crying. 
 The war clubs were not lifted, the arrows flew no 
 more. On rushed the thin, bent runner from the 
 hilltop, and the smoke-flap flaunted itself behind him. 
 As in a dream the warriors stared upon the wild 
 runner. Then a hoarse shout went up : " The Fam- 
 
190 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 ine Bringer! The Famine Bringer! " Stricken with 
 a common fear, they fled. And the storm broke 
 upon the valley. It poured down water and fire upon 
 one who lay there upon his face. It roared, it 
 shrieked, it flamed about him; but he moved not. 
 
 His breast ached with the ache of the lonesome, 
 for even Death had fled him. And when the storm 
 had passed, the stillness came back like a new pain. 
 The drenched man arose and saw the blood-red sun 
 slip down a ridge of steaming hills. 
 
 And near him lay one who had been killed with 
 an arrow. The feathers stood forth from his breast. 
 His face had the look of much pain; his hands 
 gripped at the wet grass. And the lonesome one 
 looked long upon the dead man, thinking deep 
 thoughts. " Even the dead have pain," he said, " and 
 they seek to hold to the good earth. See how he 
 clutches it! I shall live and follow my trail, for on 
 all trails there is pain; and Wakunda wishes me to 
 live." 
 
 So he dressed himself in the garments of the dead 
 warrior who needed them no more. He threw away 
 the smoke-flap, and in a gully that roared with rapid 
 waters, he washed the smutch from his forehead 
 the mud of dust and tears. And he said: " Now 
 will I walk straight again, for the marks of my shame 
 are gone. I will seek the Otoes, and they will take 
 
 me in." 
 
 Is it not the way of a man to seek better things? 
 And it happened that in the village of the Otoes 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 191 
 
 was much joy and much feasting. For the bison had 
 come back; the famine was ended. 
 
 And it was dark. The lonesome one sighted the 
 feast fires from far off and caught the far-blown scent 
 of boiling kettles. They had the home-smell. His 
 heart was glad as he entered the village and went in 
 among the feast fires. And they about the fires said : 
 "Who walks in from the night?" And Shonga 
 Saba said: U A lonesome man, one with many 
 stories to tell." 
 
 They sat him down, for stories are good with 
 feasting. And he told a story while the meat went 
 round and the kettles simmered and the embers 
 crackled and went blue. And as he told, the people 
 gathered close about to hear. They leaned forward, 
 they breathed heavily, they stared. For his story 
 was of a brave one who suffered much; it sounded 
 true; there was an ache in his words. Also it had in 
 it the muttering of war drums, the wails of women in 
 the night, the snarl of bow thongs, the beat of hoofs. 
 
 But as the teller raised his face, glowing with the 
 noble deeds of which he told, he saw the circled mass 
 of staring faces, moulded with the terrors of the tale 
 and lit blue with falling embers. 
 
 What did they see that they stared so? The 
 mark ! 
 
 The story-teller leaped to his feet. As a wounded 
 man he cried out: " It is not washed away! " He 
 threw his arms across his forehead and fled through 
 the parting throng into the night. 
 
192 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 And when he had run far from something that 
 followed yet made no sound, he cast himself down 
 on the prairie and cried to the Spirit: " Wakunda, 
 with water I washed it away, but it is not gone ! Am 
 I a wolf to howl always in the wilderness? I have 
 the ache for home. I wish to hear laughter and be 
 clean. Help me to find the trail ! " 
 
 All night his words felt about in the dark for 
 Wakunda. 
 
 The next day his wanderings began anew. And 
 after many sunlights the first frost gripped the prai 
 rie, and the snows came. More and more the lone 
 some one thought of the fires of his people. Through 
 the shivering nights the tang of the home-smoke 
 filled his nostrils; and day by day the home-ache 
 grew. 
 
 So his weary feet followed his longing, and the 
 trail led home. But there was no greeting. In an 
 empty lodge without the village he made a fire that 
 held the winter off but left him shivering. And once 
 again his woman came with sobbing and a downcast 
 face, bringing water and meat. He ate and drank, 
 yet thirst and hunger stayed. In the nights he looked 
 wistfully upon the fires of his people burning little 
 days out of the darkness. He wished to be beside 
 them and hear the laughter, for the famine had 
 passed, and there was joy. 
 
 And often by day, Seha, the brother of the man 
 who was killed, came with taunting and words that 
 wounded as a whip-thong. But the lonesome one 
 
THE MARK OF SHAME 193 
 
 made no answer, for having suffered much, he was 
 wise. And this was against the law of the fathers; 
 so it happened one day that Seha was bound to a 
 post in the centre of the village, and the whippers 
 were there with elkhorn whips to punish Seha. 
 
 Then was a strange deed done, which even yet the 
 old men tell of to the youths. From his lodge ran 
 the lonesome one and stood before the whippers. 
 The long silence he broke with words : " Spare Seha 
 and bind me to the post, for mine was the bad deed. 
 I have suffered much and now I can see." 
 
 And the old fathers, who were wise, said: " Let 
 it be as the man says." And it was done. The lone 
 some one was bound to the post and took the lashes 
 on his back. He made no cry, nor was there any 
 wincing of his face. And it happened that in his 
 pain he sought out the face of Seha in the throng. 
 It was no longer hard with hate. 
 
 And then, suddenly, as the whips hissed about him, 
 a light went across the face of the lonesome one a 
 strange, bright light. And seeing this, the arms of 
 the whippers faltered, for it was very strange. 
 
 Then in the silence that fell, the man raised a soft 
 voice: "At last the mark has left me! Bring my 
 children to look upon me, and let my woman sing! 
 I have found peace; for the mark of tears and dust 
 is gone I know not how." 
 
XIII 
 THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 
 
 HE could never be a strong waschusha 
 (brave). When he was born he was no 
 bigger than a baby coyote littered in a ter 
 rible winter after a summer of famine! That was 
 what the braves said as they sat in a circle about the 
 fires; and often one would catch him, spanning his 
 little brown legs with a contemptuous forefinger and 
 thumb, while the others made much loud mirth over 
 this bronze mite who could never be a brave. 
 
 Then the object of their mirth would pull away 
 from his tormentors, displaying his teeth with a 
 whimper that was half a growl, and would slink 
 away into the shades where the firelight did not 
 reach. Whereupon the braves would call after him 
 in their good-natured cruelty: " Mixa Zhinga 1 
 Mixa Zhinga! " (Little Wolf). 
 
 So, in accordance with certain infallible psychic 
 laws, Little Wolf became what he was considered, 
 and fulfilled his wild name to the letter. 
 
 One day in one of his most vulpine moods, while 
 trotting among the hills on all fours, stopping now 
 and then to sit upon his haunches and give forth a 
 series of howls in imitation of his namesakes, he had 
 discovered a deserted wolf s hole in the hillside, of 
 
 194 
 
THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 195 
 
 which he immediately made himself the growling 
 possessor. 
 
 To make this play metempsychosis the more real, 
 he had spirited from the tepee of his father a com 
 plete wolf s hide, clad in which he spent the greater 
 part of the time prowling about among the hills with 
 an intense wolfish hate for all humankind gnawing 
 at his heart. 
 
 One summer evening Little Wolf, sitting upon the 
 top of the hill, gazed down upon the circle of 
 tepees which was the village of his people. As he 
 looked, the silent vow he had taken, never to go back 
 to his tribe again, but to be a wolf with the wolves, 
 slowly became shapeless, then indistinct, then it van 
 ished altogether. For the smoke, rising slowly from 
 the various fires, told a bewitching tale of supper to 
 his eyes; and the light wind brought to his keen 
 nostrils the scent of boiling kettles, which acted as a 
 sort of footnote to the tale of the smoke, finally 
 clinching the argument of the text ! 
 
 So the little wolf fell from his high resolve as the 
 wolf skin fell from his back, and he forthwith trotted 
 down the hillside, at every step degenerating, as he 
 thought, into just a common zhinga zhinga (baby). 
 
 Having cautiously approached a fire, Little Wolf 
 sat upon the ground with his knees huddled up to his 
 chin, and watched the deft hands of the women tend 
 ing the baking of the squaw corn cakes and the 
 yellow watuh (pumpkin) in the embers. 
 
 The old women, their backs bent with their loads, 
 
196 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 carried bundles of faggots from a thicket near by and 
 placed them upon the fires, that flared up with a 
 sound like the wind s, making a small circular day 
 amid the gathering shadows. The air was pleasant 
 with the scent of boiling kettles, some filled with the 
 meat of the tae or the tachuga (bison and antelope) ; 
 some ebullient with the savoury zhew munka, the tea 
 of the prairie. And as Little Wolf sat and looked 
 upon the suggestive scene, a great wave of sympa 
 thetic kindness passed through his small body. 
 
 And especially did the wolfishness of his little 
 heart melt into an indefinite feeling of love for hu 
 manity as his eyes followed the form of the maiden 
 Hinnagi as she bustled with her mother about the 
 kettles. Already in his childish mind he was wield 
 ing the stone axe with mighty force in some mys 
 terious battle among the hills; and it was all for her. 
 His eyes grew big with the dream he was dreaming. 
 He stared into the fire as he thought the thoughts of 
 ambitious youth. 
 
 The flame fell and crept into the embers. Then 
 reality came back as the shadows came. Something 
 of the wonted wolfishness tugged at his heart as he 
 thought of what the braves had said. He could 
 never be a strong brave ! With an awful bitterness 
 this thought grew upon him, and even a full stomach 
 could not quite ease the pang. 
 
 After the evening meal the war drums were 
 brought into the open space about which the tepees 
 were built. For upon the morrow the entire band 
 
THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 197 
 
 of the tribe s warriors would go out against their 
 enemies, the Sioux, and to-night they would dance 
 the war dance that their courage might not fail. 
 
 The drums were placed in a small circle; before 
 each an old man, who had seen many battles ere the 
 eagle glance faded from his eye, sat cross-legged, 
 holding a drumstick in either hand. About these 
 the braves gathered in a larger circle. The yellow 
 and red light of the boisterous camp fires made more 
 terrible their faces fierce with the war paint. 
 
 In another circle at some distance from that of 
 the braves, awaited the women, dressed in their 
 brightest garments of dyed buckskin. At a signal 
 from the head chief of the tribe, the snarling thun 
 der of the war drums began. The two motionless 
 circles suddenly became two rings of gyrating colour. 
 The beaded moccasins twinkled like a chain of satel 
 lites swinging about the faggot fire for a sun. The 
 shout of the braves arose above the cadence of the 
 drum beats, and the monotonous song of the women 
 grew like a night wind in a lonesome valley. 
 
 Tum-tum-um-um, tum-tum-um-um, went the 
 drums, ever faster, ever louder, inciting the dancers 
 to delirious fury. The neglected fires dwindled into 
 embers. The shout of the braves and the droning 
 of the women ceased. Darkness fell upon the cir 
 cles. The dancers moved swiftly through the dusk 
 like ghosts in a midnight orgy. There was no sound 
 save the snarling beat of the drums and the shuffle 
 of wild feet. 
 
198 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Then the moon, big-eyed with wonder, arose 
 above the hills, pouring a weird light upon the dance. 
 Little Wolf, who had been huddling closely against 
 a tepee with an unintelligible fear, now felt the de 
 lirium of the dance for the first time. He leaped to 
 his feet with a shout that echoed strange and hoarse 
 from the hills! The whole village, as if awakened 
 from the spell, caught up the cry and sent it trembling 
 up the gulches! 
 
 With the hot blood pounding at his temples, Little 
 Wolf swung into the frenzy of the dance. He 
 leaped like the antelope when it catches the scent 
 of the hunter. He was no longer the zhinga zhlnga 
 who could never be a brave. The fanaticism of the 
 savage was upon him. With his head thrown back 
 until it caught the full glare of the moon, he danced. 
 It was not a child s face that the pale light struck; 
 it was the face of a fiend! The unfettered wind of 
 the prairie was in his lungs! The swiftness of the 
 elk was in his feet ! He danced until the hills danced 
 about him in a dance of their own. He danced until 
 the moon reeled like a sick man! He danced until 
 his chest felt crushed as with the hug of a grizzly! 
 He danced until the stars and the moon went out, 
 and there was nothing but darkness and a deep, deep 
 oppressive something, like and unlike slumber, upon 
 him! The sun was far up in the heavens when he 
 awoke lying upon the ground where he had fallen with 
 fatigue. He rubbed his eyes and stared about him; 
 the circles of the dance had vanished; the war drums 
 
THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 199 
 
 were still. The warriors had ridden out of the 
 village into the mysterious region beyond the hills 
 where great deeds awaited to be done. Only the 
 women and the children and the old men remained in 
 the village. 
 
 Then there came upon Little Wolf that over 
 powering thought of bitterness. He was only a 
 zhlnga zhinga; he could never be a brave. No, but 
 he would be a wolf ! He would live in howling lone 
 liness among the hills ! 
 
 Yet that day as he prowled about, clad in his 
 wolf skin, he was conscious of not being half so 
 good a wolf as he had been the day before. He did 
 not find it quite within his power to hate his people 
 with whom he had felt the delirium of the war dance. 
 The snarling beat of the war drums had awakened 
 in him a vital interest in the great prairie tragedy of 
 food-getting and war-making. 
 
 Several days passed, and the warriors had not re 
 turned. Little Wolf was sitting beside the deserted 
 hole which was his den, thinking great thoughts of 
 the future as he basked in the horizontal glare of the 
 evening sun. As he looked with half-shut eyes across 
 the hills, his dreaming was suddenly arrested by the 
 sight of what seemed a number of bunches of grass 
 moving along the brow of the hill on the other side 
 of the valley in which the village lay. As he looked 
 and wondered at this fantastic dance of the grasses, 
 there was a wild shout from the opposite hill, and a 
 small band of Otoes, their heads covered with grass 
 
200 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 that they might the more easily creep upon their 
 foes, rushed down the hillside toward the defenceless 
 village. 
 
 Terrified by the suddenness of the attack, Little 
 Wolf scampered into his hole like any other little 
 wolf, and crouched in the darkness shivering with 
 fear. Some time passed, during which he could hear 
 the wail of the women and the victorious cries of the 
 Otoes; then the noises ceased. With a great pang 
 of remorse, the consciousness of his cowardice came 
 upon Little Wolf. He had crawled into a hole like 
 a badger ! 
 
 Then he thought of Hinnagi. 
 
 He crawled out of the hole and ran down the hill 
 into the village with his wolf skin still upon him. 
 There amid the tepees he saw the bodies of some 
 of the old men who had attempted resistance, but the 
 time of their strength was passed. 
 
 "Hinnagi! Hinnagi ! " called Little Wolf. He 
 listened, and heard only the wail of the women from 
 the lodges. 
 
 It was the custom of the Otoes to carry off the 
 fairest daughters of the enemy as the spoil of war. 
 Little Wolf thought of this with a great pang at his 
 heart. A great indefinite resolve of heroism came 
 upon him. He ran out of the village and down the 
 valley, keeping the trail of the enemy. When he 
 had gone some distance, he came upon some ponies 
 that the Otoes had abandoned for the fresher ones 
 from the herds of the Omahas. 
 
THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 201 
 
 Catching one of these, weary with a long trail, he 
 mounted it and turned its head down the trail of the 
 Otoes, urging its weary limbs into a gallop by plying 
 his heels upon its ribs. 
 
 The shades of the valley crept slowly up the hills 
 and the golden glow faded from the summits. Little 
 Wolf still urged the stumbling pony through the 
 darkness. As he rode, the frenzy that he had felt 
 in the war dance rushed through him. His temples 
 beat and his heart throbbed to the time of the snarl 
 ing drums. To him the night breeze seemed heavy 
 with noble deeds awaiting to be given life and voices 
 of thunder for the ears of men. 
 
 He felt that in some indefinite way he would now 
 become a strong waschusha! The Otoes had stolen 
 the ponies and the women; ah, that included Hin- 
 nagi ! He would save them ; little did he know how, 
 yet he felt that he would save them. Then the 
 braves would not laugh at him any more, but would 
 let him ride to battle with them. And maybe some 
 time Hinnagi would be his squaw! 
 
 Suddenly rounding the base of a hill, the pony 
 stopped short and pricked up its ears, sniffing the 
 wind that came up the gulch. Little Wolf, aroused 
 from his musing, soon understood the abruptness of 
 the pony. He smelled smoke! Slipping to the 
 ground he crawled on his hands and knees up the 
 gulch in the direction from which the scent of 
 the smoke came. 
 
 Soon he reached the end of the gulch and, looking 
 
202 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 into a small valley, he saw through the gloom a 
 number of rudely constructed tepees. Breathlessly 
 he listened. For awhile there was no sound except 
 the crackling of the low fires and the flap of the 
 blankets about the poles. Then as he listened, there 
 came to his ears a low, mournful wail as of a night 
 wind in the scrub oaks of a bluff. 
 
 Having satisfied himself that the Otoes slept 
 soundly, Little Wolf crawled in the direction of the 
 wail and disappeared in the gloom. 
 
 Some moments afterward, an Otoe brave suddenly 
 awoke from his heavy slumber. In the weird glow 
 of the falling fire he beheld at the entrance of his 
 tepee a grey wolf standing motionless. 
 
 The brave raised himself upon his elbow, uttering 
 a grunt of terror as- of one who feels a nightmare 
 and would cry out were not his tongue frozen in 
 his mouth. 
 
 The wolf with a startled movement whispered 
 hoarsely in the Omaha tongue : " The Omahas ! 
 They are coming! Fly! Fly!" 
 
 The Otoe brave leaped to his feet, every limb 
 growing cold with fright. He rubbed his eyes and 
 stared at the darkness. The wolf had vanished. 
 
 Now an Indian believes weird things, and the 
 warning of a talking wolf was not a thing to be 
 despised even though it were only dreamed. So the 
 Otoe brave gave a shout that rang up the gulch and 
 made the grazing ponies snort and tug at their 
 lariats. 
 
THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 203 
 
 Soon the entire band was rushing about the camp. 
 
 "The Omahas! They are coming!" cried the 
 startled brave. "Fly! Fly! For lo, a grey wolf 
 came to my tepee and spoke to me in a dream ! " 
 
 "Fly! Fly!" echoed the whole band, delirious 
 with fear. " Kill the squaws! " they shouted; for in 
 their flight they could not be burdened with their 
 spoils, and they would not leave them to their 
 enemies. 
 
 There was the sound of the shrieks of women; 
 then the galloping of hoofs; then silence. 
 
 Two days afterward the Omahas, having returned 
 to their stricken village, made the trail of the fleeing 
 Otoes thunderous with pursuing hoofs. Suddenly 
 topping the hill that overlooked the deserted camp 
 of their enemies, they beheld the bodies of the slain 
 women strewn amid the tepees. Over one of these 
 a grey wolf stood. 
 
 There was a shout from the foremost of the 
 Omaha warriors, and a dozen arrows sang in the 
 air and quivered in the body of the wolf. It rolled 
 upon its side with a cry half human ! 
 
 A group of braves, riding up to the corpse of the 
 woman, pulled the blanket from its face. 
 
 It was Hinnagi! 
 
 With a savage kick one turned the still quivering 
 body of the wolf upon its back. The grey hide fell 
 from an emaciated brown face, twitching with the 
 agony of death. 
 
 It was Little Wolf! 
 
XIV 
 DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 
 
 RUN WALKER lay upon the brown grass 
 without the circle of the village; and it was 
 the time when the maize is gathered the 
 brown, drear time. He lay with ear pressed to the 
 earth. 
 
 What are you doing?" asked one who walked 
 there. 
 
 "I?" said Rain Walker; and his eyes and face 
 were not good to see as he raised his head. The 
 dying time seemed also in his face. " The growers 
 are coming up, and I am listening to their breath 
 ing," he said. 
 
 And the questioner walked on with a strange 
 smile; for it was not the time of the coming of the 
 growers. 
 
 Rain Walker stood in the centre of the village and 
 held his face to the sky. 
 
 "What are you doing?" said one who walked 
 there. 
 
 "I?" and there was twilight in Rain Walker s 
 eyes as he looked upon the questioner. " I shot an 
 arrow into the air. It did not come back, so I am 
 always looking for it." 
 
 And the questioner smiled and went on walking; 
 204 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 205 
 
 for no arrow rises that does not fall. A child knows 
 that. 
 
 And the people said: "It is all because Mad 
 Buffalo, the Ponca, took his squaw. He took her, 
 and she went. It was after the summer s feasting 
 and talking together that she went. Rain Walker 
 is not forgetting." 
 
 And Rain Walker sat much alone; he sat much 
 alone making strange songs not pleasant to hear. 
 And as he made songs he made weapons. He fash 
 ioned him a man-dc-hi, which is a long spear, tipped 
 with sharp flint; and he sang. He wrought a za-zi- 
 man-di, which is a great bow; and sang all the time. 
 They were hate songs that he sang; they snarled. 
 
 He shaped many arrows; he headed them with 
 sharp flints and tipped them with the feathers of the 
 hawk; and all the time he sang. He made a we-ak- 
 ga-di, which is an ugly club. He sang to himself 
 and to the weapons that he made. To the harsh, 
 snarling airs he wrought the weapons. The songs 
 went into them, and they looked like things that 
 might hate much. 
 
 And one drew near who was walking. " Why do 
 you make war things? " said he. 
 
 "I?" and Rain Walker threw himself upon his 
 stomach, writhing toward the questioner like a big 
 snake. " I am a rattlesnake/ he said, " hiss-ss-ss-s ! 
 go away ! I sting ! " 
 
 And the man went, for it is not good to see a man 
 act like a snake. 
 
206 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 And one night the weapons were finished. All 
 that night the people heard the voice of Rain Walker 
 singing. They said: "Those are the songs of one 
 who wishes to go on the warpath I " 
 
 And in the morning Rain Walker came out of his 
 lodge. The squaws trembled to see him; and the 
 men wondered. For he had wept and his eyes were 
 pale. Well did the men know that he who weeps in 
 hate is not a child. 
 
 And Rain Walker raised a hoarse voice into the 
 morning stillness before all the people: ; Where is 
 my woman she who cooked for me and made my 
 lodge pleasant? Tell me; for I walk there that the 
 crows may eat me ! " 
 
 The people shivered as though his voice were the 
 breath of the first frost. 
 
 " You need not make words, my kinsmen; I know. 
 I walk there and the crows shall eat me." 
 
 He went forth from the door of his lodge and 
 came to the place where the head chief lived among 
 the Hungas. He raised the door flap. " A-ho ! " 
 said he, for the chief was within eating. " I, 
 Rain Walker, stand before you. I have words to 
 give." 
 
 " Speak, " said the chief. 
 
 " I am wronged. I wish war! I wish to see the 
 Poncas destroyed ! " 
 
 The head chief gazed long into the tear-washed 
 eyes of Rain Walker, and he said : " It is a big thing 
 to take that trail. It means the wailing of women; 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 207 
 
 it means hunger; it means the crying of zhinga 
 zhingas for fathers that lie in lonesome places and 
 never ride back. It is a hard path to take. I will 
 think." 
 
 And it happened after the thinking of the big chief 
 that a council was called a coming-together of the 
 leaders of the bands. 
 
 And the leaders came together, and sat with big 
 thoughts. It was evening, and among the assembled 
 leaders sat Rain Walker. His face was thin and 
 cruel as a stone axe stained with blood. 
 
 Then the big chief raised his voice, and words to 
 be heard grew there in the big lodge. " This man 
 who sits with us has been wronged. When our 
 brothers, the Poncas, were among us for the feasting 
 and the talking together, Mad Buffalo was among 
 them. 
 
 " A woman is a thing not to be understood. Now 
 she dies on long winter trails for a man, or grows 
 old and wrinkled suckling his zhinga zhingas; and 
 now she leaves him for another; yet it is the same 
 woman. I knew a wise man once ; but he shook his 
 head about these things; and so do I. 
 
 " You know of whom I speak. It was Sun Eyes; 
 and she was this man s woman. Mad Buffalo smiled, 
 and she went with him." 
 
 Rain Walker s breath, that hissed through his 
 teeth, filled up the silence that followed. His face 
 was thin and sharp and eager, even as the barbed 
 head of a war arrow. 
 
208 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " And this man has come to me crying for war," 
 continued the head chief. " Think hard, and let us 
 talk together." 
 
 And he of the Big Elk band said: " Let the 
 Poncas come down in the night and drive away our 
 ponies, and I will gather my band about me. But 
 it has not been so." 
 
 And he of the Hawk band said: "Let the 
 Poncas destroy our gardens, and I will think of my 
 weapons." 
 
 And he of the No-Teeth band said: "Let the 
 Poncas speak ill of us, and my band will put on the 
 war paint." 
 
 Then a silence grew and the head chief filled it 
 with few words. "Let us pass the pipe; and all 
 who smoke it smoke for war." 
 
 And there were ten chiefs in the council, sitting 
 in a circle. The first touched the pipe lightly and 
 passed it on as though it burned his fingers; and so 
 the second and third, even to the tenth. And next 
 to him sat Rain Walker. His breath came drily 
 through his teeth, like a hot wind in a parched gulch. 
 With hands that trembled he grasped the pipe from 
 the tenth, who had not placed it to his lips. Rain 
 Walker placed it to his lips nervously, eagerly, as 
 one who touches a cool water bowl after a long 
 thirst. He struck a flint and lit it. Then he arose 
 to his feet, tall, straight, trembling a Rage grown 
 into a man ! 
 
 "I smoke! " he cried; " I smoke, and through all 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 209 
 
 the sunlights that come I shall walk alone and kill! 
 The lonesome walker I am he! 
 
 " I shall speak to the snake, and he shall teach me 
 his creeping and his stinging. I shall speak to the 
 elk, and he shall teach me his fleetness, his strength 
 that lasts, his fury when he turns to fight. And I 
 shall speak to the hawk and learn the keenness of his 
 eyes ! " 
 
 Rain Walker puffed blue streamers of smoke into 
 the still twilight of the lodge, seeming something 
 more than man in the fog he made. 
 
 "I smoke!" he cried; and his cry had changed 
 into a song of snarling sounds and sounds that wailed. 
 " I smoke, and I smoke alone ; my brothers will not 
 take the pipe with me. In lonesome places shall I 
 walk with my hate, and not even the lone hawk in 
 the furthest hills shall hear me make aught but a 
 hate cry. I have no longer any people! I am a 
 tribe the tribe that walks alone ! The zhinga 
 zhingas of the women that are not yet born shall 
 hear my name, and it shall be like a nightwind wail 
 ing when the spirits walk and the fires are blue ! I 
 will forget that I am the son of a woman; I will 
 think myself the son of a snake, that bore me on 
 a hot rock in a lonesome place. I will think that I 
 never tasted woman s milk, but only venom stewed 
 by the hot sun. And now I walk alone." 
 
 His cry had fallen to a low wail that made the 
 flesh of the hearers creep, although they were leaders 
 and brave. And with eyes that peered far ahead as 
 
210 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 into impenetrable distances Rain Walker strode out 
 of the lodge. The night was coming; he went forth 
 to meet it, walking. 
 
 As he walked toward the night his thoughts were 
 of choobay (holy) things. He thought much of the 
 spirits, and he reached a high hill as he walked. It 
 was high; therefore it was a choobay place. And he 
 climbed to the summit, bare of grass and white with 
 flaked rocks against the sky, that darkened fast as 
 the Night walked. 
 
 Then he lit his pipe and made choobay smoke. 
 He wished to have the good wakundas with him, 
 even though he walked alone. For well he knew 
 that no man can walk quite alone. So he extended 
 the pipe stem to the west, the south, the east, the 
 north, and he cried, " O you who cause the four 
 winds to reach a place, help me! I stand needy! " 
 Then he extended the pipe stem toward the earth, 
 and he said, " O Venerable Man who lives at the 
 bottom, here I stand needy! " And to the heavens 
 he held the stem and cried, " O Grandfather who 
 lives above^ I stand needy; I, Rain Walker! Though 
 my brothers treat me badly, yet I think you will 
 help me ! " 
 
 And he felt much stronger. 
 
 Then, with his weapons about him, he set his face 
 to the south, for there in the flat lands of Nebraska 
 lay the village of the Poncas. 
 
 And he walked in lonesome places all night. A 
 coyote trotted past him and sat at some distance. 
 " O brother Coyote," said Rain Walker, " I am on 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 211 
 
 the warpath; teach me your long running and your 
 snapping ! " The coyote whined and went into a 
 gulch. 
 
 " I walk alone, and none relieve my sorrow ! " 
 
 So *sang Rain Walker; and singing thus he walked 
 into the morning. And the prairie was grey with 
 frost and very big, and the skies were filled with a 
 quiet, so that a far crow cawing faintly made a shout. 
 Having nothing to eat he sang, and hunger went 
 away. His song filled the world, for he walked 
 alone where it was very silent. 
 
 To the hawk he cried for keenness of eyes; but 
 the hawk circled on and was only a speck. Nothing 
 heard the man who walked alone. 
 
 He killed a rabbit and ate ; he found a stream and 
 drank. Then he met the Night walking again, and 
 they walked together until they met the Day; and the 
 man saw below him in the flat lands of Nebraska the 
 jumbled mud village of the Poncas. 
 
 And it happened that the people in the village 
 were moving very early. There was a neighing of 
 ponies and a shouting of men and a scolding and 
 laughing of women. It was the time of the bison 
 hunt, and they were going forth that day. 
 
 Rain Walker lay in the brown grass at the hilltop 
 and watched with wistful eyes the merry ones as the 
 long, thin file left the village, the riders and the 
 walkers and the drags. It is pleasant to go on 
 the hunt. Rain Walker felt that he would never 
 go again. 
 
 His face softened; then suddenly it changed and 
 
212 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 became again as a barbed war arrow. Mad Buffalo 
 rode, and after him went Sun Eyes walking! Her 
 head hung low like a thing wilted by the frost. She 
 laughed none; she, too, seemed as one who walked 
 alone. 
 
 When the long, thin line, like a huge snake writh 
 ing westward into the hills, had disappeared, Rain 
 Walker got up and walked fast. He walked fast, 
 for he wished to be near the place of camping when 
 the night came. And it was so. 
 
 He lay at a distance, watching the fires flare into 
 the night and feeling very hungry, for he caught the 
 scent of the boiling kettles. They smelled like home. 
 And when the people had eaten and the fires had 
 fallen, Rain Walker said, " Now I will begin my 
 war. I need a pony, the Poncas have them." 
 
 He crawled upon his hands and knees to where the 
 herd grazed. There had been no watch set, for all 
 the tribes were at peace, except the tribe that walked 
 alone. 
 
 And Rain Walker rode away into the night. He 
 had big thoughts as he rode. 
 
 The hunting was poor that year; it happened so, 
 they say. Still toward the place where the evening 
 goes went the tribe, peering into far places for the 
 bison; and ever there was one who crept near the 
 tepees at night and heard the words of the Poncas, 
 which are the same as the Omahas speak. 
 
 And they wandered, hunting, in the places where 
 the sandhills are the dreary places. 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 213 
 
 And one day it happened, they say, that a coyote 
 and a hawk and some crows saw two men in a very 
 lonesome place among the sand hills. They alone 
 saw. And the two met, riding. One was a Ponca 
 gone forth to seek the unappearing herd. He was 
 tall and well made, and his pony was spotted. The 
 other was also even as the first, although not a 
 Ponca ; but his pony was not spotted. 
 
 And when they met a great cry went up from the 
 one whose pony was not spotted. The coyote and the 
 hawk and the crows heard and saw. It seemed a 
 strange cry in the silence that lived there. Then he 
 who rode the spotted pony turned and fled; but an 
 arrow is swifter than a pony, though it be wind- 
 footed; and he who fled fell upon the sand and the 
 pony ran at some distance and stopped. He looked 
 on also. 
 
 And the two men met. He with the arrow in his 
 back arose with a groan from the sand and growled 
 as the other approached and dismounted. They 
 seemed as two who had met and parted enemies. 
 
 They seized each other and rolled upon the sand. 
 The coyote whined, the crows cawed, but the 
 hawk only watched. But all the while the ponies 
 neighed. 
 
 And the sting of the arrow weakened one, but he 
 fought like a bear. He made a good fight. But the 
 other fixed his hands upon his enemy s throat until the 
 silent places were filled with a gurgling and a rasp 
 ing of breath that came hard. Then there was only 
 
2i 4 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 silence. The coyote ran away, the crows and the 
 hawk flew. The ponies alone watched now. 
 
 And the man whose pony was not spotted arose 
 and laughed very loud only it was not the laugh of 
 a glad man. Then the man who laughed stripped off 
 the garments of the other and put them upon him 
 self. Then he built a fire and lit his pipe and made 
 choobay smoke. Then he spoke to the various wa- 
 kundas that were somewhere there in the silence. 
 
 " I have killed my enemy. I will burn his heart 
 and give you the ashes, O Grandfathers! " 
 
 The crows heard this, for they had come back 
 looking for their feast. 
 
 And the man burned the heart of his enemy and 
 scattered the ashes, singing a brave song all the 
 while. He had learned to do this from the Kansas; 
 it is their custom. 
 
 Then the man got on the spotted pony and rode 
 away, bearing with him the weapons of the man who 
 stayed. And when he was gone the crows and the 
 coyote came and made harsh noises at each other, for 
 each was hungry, and there was a feast spread there 
 upon the sand. 
 
 And it happened that evening, they say, that one 
 rode into the Ponca camp and went to the tepee 
 where Sun Eyes, the Omaha woman, waited for 
 someone. 
 
 The man who came had his whole face hidden 
 with a piece of buckskin, having eye and mouth holes 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 215 
 
 in it. And Sun Eyes was cooking over a fire before 
 her tepee. 
 
 u Ho, Mad Buffalo!" she said; " you have not 
 found the bison. Why have you hidden your face? " 
 
 " I found no bison," said the man, " but I saw 
 something in the hills which caused me to hide my 
 face." 
 
 And Sun Eyes looked keenly at the man, for she 
 thought it was some wakunda he had seen. 
 
 " Why do you speak in a strange voice?" said 
 she ; and she trembled as she said it. 
 
 " He who has seen something is never the same 
 again ! " said he. 
 
 And while the woman wondered the two ate 
 together. And as the man ate he laughed very pleas 
 antly at times like a man who is very glad. 
 
 "Why do you laugh, Mad Buffalo?" said the 
 woman. 
 
 " Because I was very hungry for something, and 
 I have it now," said the man. 
 
 And when he had ceased eating he sang glad 
 songs, and again the woman questioned. 
 
 " I sing because of what I saw in the hills," 
 said he. 
 
 And this seemed very strange to the woman. But 
 it is not allowed that one should question a man who 
 has seen a wakunda. 
 
 And it happened that the man was pleased to 
 speak evil words of Rain Walker, and Sun Eyes 
 hung her head; her eyes were wet. 
 
216 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Then said the man, having seen: " Why do you 
 act so? Do you want him? Behold! Am I not as 
 good to see as Rain Walker? " 
 
 And he acted as one who is almost angry and a 
 little sad. But the woman only sobbed a very little 
 sob, for as the chief said in the council, a very wise 
 man does not know the ways of a woman. 
 
 And it happened that night, they say, that, as the 
 two slept, Sun Eyes dreamed a strange dream that 
 made her cry out. And the twp sat up startled. 
 
 " What is it? " said the man. 
 
 " A dream ! " sobbed Sun Eyes. 
 
 "What dream?" said the man, and his voice 
 seemed kind. 
 
 " I cannot tell; I do not wish to be beaten." 
 
 "Tell it, Sun Eyes. Was it about Rain 
 Walker?" 
 
 She did not answer; the man sighed. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," he said. And she spoke. 
 
 " I dreamed that I saw my zhinga zhinga that I 
 am carrying. And it was Rain Walker s. It had 
 his face, and it looked upon me with hate. It pushed 
 me away when I offered my breast. It would take 
 no milk from me. And it seemed that its look 
 pierced me like a barbed arrow. Thus I awoke, and 
 cried out." 
 
 The woman was sobbing, and a tremor ran 
 through the man. She felt it as he leaned against 
 her, and she thought it anger. 
 
 " Take me there where I came from to the vil- 
 
DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 217 
 
 lage of my people ! " she cried. " You are big and 
 good to see, and many women will follow you! 
 Take me to my people ! Dreams are wiser than men ; 
 the wakundas send them. I wish to go back, that 
 my child may smile and take my breast." 
 
 And the man rose and began dressing for the trail. 
 
 " I will take you back," said he. " Dreams are 
 wiser than men." 
 
 And before the day walked the two went forth 
 on the long trail, back to the village of the woman s 
 people. 
 
 The man went before and the woman followed, 
 bearing the burdens of the trail. But when the dawn 
 came the man did a strange thing. He took the bur 
 dens upon his own shoulders, saying nothing. It 
 seemed his heart had been softened; but his face 
 being hidden, the woman could not see what was 
 written there. 
 
 And the trail was long; but the man was kind. He 
 seemed no longer the Mad Buffalo. He made fires 
 and pitched the tepee like a squaw. He spoke soft 
 words. 
 
 And after many days of travelling the two came, 
 as the Night was beginning to walk, to the brown 
 brow of the hill beneath which lay the village of the 
 Omahas. 
 
 And the man said: "There are your people. 
 Go!" 
 
 And the woman moaned, saying: "He will not 
 take me, and the dream will be true. Never on the 
 
218 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 long trail did my heart fail; but now I am weak. 
 My breast aches." 
 
 But the man said: "Sun Eyes, had not Rain 
 Walker ever a soft heart? He will take you back. 
 Look!" 
 
 And the woman, who had been gazing through 
 tears upon the village of her people, turned and saw 
 that the man had torn the buckskin from his face. 
 She gave a cry and shrank from what she saw. 
 
 But the man took her gently by the hand. 
 
 u He will take you back," he said; " dreams are 
 wiser than men 1 " 
 
XV 
 THE SMILE OF GOD 
 
 THE Omahas were hunting bison. The 
 young moon had been thin and bent like a 
 bow by the arm of a strong man when they 
 had left their village in the valley of Ne Shuga. 
 Night after night it had grown above their cheerless 
 tepees, ever further eastward, until now it came 
 forth no more, but lingered in its black lodge like a 
 brave who has walked far and keeps his blankets 
 because the way was hard and long. 
 
 All through the time of the growing and dying 
 moon, the Omahas had sought for the bison. Upon 
 a hundred summits they had halted to gaze beneath 
 the arched hand into the lonely valleys from whence 
 came no sound of lowing cows or bellowing bulls. 
 Like the voice of Famine through the lonesome air 
 came the caw-caw of the crow. Like heaps of bleach 
 ing bones the far-off sage brush whitened. 
 
 This evening as the women busied themselves with 
 the building of the tepees, there was no crooning on 
 their lips. The valley in which they were placing 
 their camp was still but for the clattering of the poles, 
 as they were placed in their conical positions, or the 
 flap of the blankets, which were being bound about 
 the poles for a covering. 
 
 219 
 
220 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 At dreary intervals a grazing pony would toss its 
 weary head and neigh nervously, as if wondering at 
 the stillness of its masters. 
 
 The silent squaws gathered armfuls of scrub oak 
 and plum twigs, and lit fires that lapped the blacken 
 ing air with ruddy tongues and sent their voices 
 roaring up the hills, to be answered by their echoes 
 that came back faintly like the lowing of a phantom 
 herd! 
 
 The old men and the braves sat about the fires 
 and no word was on their lips. From lip to lip the 
 fragrant pipe passed, yet even its softening influence 
 could not move to speech the lips it touched. Each 
 face upon which the firelight fell was hideous with 
 the gauntness of hunger. 
 
 One by one the runners, sent out in search of the 
 herds, came into camp. With a slow, swinging trot 
 these great lean men approached, as the gaunt wolf 
 approaches his lair in the cold light of the morning 
 when no prey has been abroad all night. Sullen and 
 silent they took their places in the cheerless circles 
 about the fires. There was no need for words from 
 them. Their expectant kinsmen looked into their 
 faces and read the tale of their despair so readily 
 from the drawn skin and sunken eyes that they 
 groaned. 
 
 The glow of the west fell into the greyness of 
 ashes, as a camp fire falls when all the women sleep. 
 Then the dark came over the eastern hills. Far into 
 the night the braves and old men sat about the fires, 
 
THE SMILE OF GOD 221 
 
 speechless. As they listened, they could hear the 
 hungry children whining in their sleep. Once a 
 squaw, suddenly awakened from a dream near the 
 fires, leaped to her feet and cried " Tae! Tae! 
 [bison] " The hoarse cry beat against the black 
 hills and came back like a mockery. The men gazed 
 at each other and grinned with twitching lips. 
 
 Again the lonesome air slumbered, save for a 
 weird song that arose from the tepee of the big 
 medicine-man, Ashunhunga. He was calling to 
 Wakunda. The song droned itself into silence like 
 the song of a locust when the evening is quiet. 
 
 After some time, a sound of wailing came from 
 the mysterious tepee; and as the men turned their 
 faces to the place, they beheld the half-naked form 
 of the medicine-man passing like a spectre amid the 
 glow of the fires. 
 
 The dry skin clung to his ribs and sinews. His 
 head was thrown back and the fires lit his face. 
 Through his parted lips the white teeth shone. Out 
 of the hollows of his eyes a wild light glared. The 
 dream was upon him! With bony hands clenched, 
 he beat his naked breast and cried: u Wah-hoo-ha-a! 
 W ah-hoo-ha-a-a-a! The curse of Wakunda is upon 
 us! The black spirits of the dead are about us! For 
 Ashunhunga had a dream. A black spirit came to 
 him and its eyes were lightning and its voice was 
 thunder as it said : * Why do you shelter him whom 
 Wakunda hates? Wa-hoo-ha-a-a-a! " 
 
 Blood fell from the mysterious man s palms where 
 
222 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the nails clenched convulsively, and his arms and 
 breast were smeared with blood. The listeners shud 
 dered as the wild voice began anew. 
 
 "Ashunhunga will talk to the black spirit! He 
 will learn whom Wakunda hates ! Him we shall cast 
 from us ! Then Wakunda will smile and the valleys 
 shall thunder with herds! " 
 
 Beating his breast and gesticulating wildly with his 
 long, bony arms, the old man passed back amid the 
 tepees. 
 
 Those who sat about the fires were frozen by the 
 wild words into bronze statues of Fear. Scarcely 
 was a breath drawn; not a man moved. The black 
 spirits of the dead were about them ! Not a hand 
 was raised to replenish the fires with faggots. The 
 flames sank, and the embers sent a dull blue light 
 upon the circles of haggard faces ! 
 
 As Ashunhunga passed on toward his tepee, he 
 suddenly stumbled over a shivering form, huddled 
 in the shadow. Quickly regaining his feet, he saw 
 that upon which he had stumbled. It was a dwarfed, 
 ill-shapen body, with short, crooked legs and long 
 emaciated arms with protruding joints. The form 
 raised itself upon its hands and knees and looked 
 upon the medicine-man with an idiot leer upon its 
 face. 
 
 It was Shanugahi (Nettle) the cripple. 
 
 With a cry as of a squaw who sees a black spirit in 
 her sleep, Ashunhunga rushed into his tepee. His 
 mystical songs wailed over the camp for a while, 
 
THE SMILE OF GOD 223 
 
 then ceased. Overcome by his fanatical emotions, 
 he had fallen into a swoon. And he had a dream. 
 
 He was alone upon the prairie and hunger was 
 pinching his entrails. Then there came a bison bull 
 toward him, roaring through the silence. He raised 
 his bow, and with sure aim, sent an arrow singing 
 into the heart of the beast. Then the air grew black, 
 save for a blue light as of dying 1 fires. The bison 
 began to change form ! Its hind legs grew short and 
 crooked; its fore legs became long and lean and 
 sinewy like the arms of a starving man. Its body 
 dwindled, dwindled and it was human ! Its head 
 became indistinct and wavered as in a haze. Then 
 it grew boldly up in the ghastly light and the face 
 was the face of Shanugahi with the idiot leer ! 
 
 The vision whirled giddily and sank into the dizzy 
 darkness. 
 
 With a cry as of one stabbed in his sleep, Ashun- 
 hunga sprang from his blanket and rushed out of his 
 tepee. Those who sat about the smouldering fires, 
 startled from their dumb terror by the cry, raised 
 their eyes and gazed upon the face of the medicine 
 man as he passed. They did not speak, but the ques 
 tion on their faces was u who? " 
 
 " It is Shanugahi ! " said Ashunhunga in an awing 
 whisper. "It is Shanugahi whom Wakunda hates! 
 He has brought the curse upon us ! " 
 
 The ill-shapen bronze mass of flesh that was Sha 
 nugahi lay curled up in sleep in the shadow of a 
 tepee. Suddenly his sleep was broken by a heavy 
 
224 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 hand reaching out of the darkness. He shook him 
 self, raised his head and gazed about. He saw the 
 faces of a number of braves indistinct in the dim 
 glow of the fires. Nearby a pony stood ready for a 
 rider. Then a strange voice close to his ear, whis 
 pered hoarsely: " Fly! Fly! The black spirits of 
 the dead are about you ! The curse of Wakunda is 
 upon you ! Fly ! Fly ! " 
 
 Shanugahi stared about him, then turned his mean 
 ingless eyes upon his tribesmen and leered. Strong 
 arms seized him and placed him astride the wait 
 ing pony. Someone lashed the animal across the 
 haunches, and it plunged down the valley into the 
 blackness of the night. 
 
 When the dazed rider had gone some distance, the 
 meaning of the whispered words came upon him. 
 Cold sweat sprang out on his limbs. He glanced 
 about him, and the night was swarming with de 
 mons! 
 
 His shriek cut the stillness like a knife of ice ! He 
 grasped the mane of the pony with a convulsive clasp. 
 He dashed his heels into the flanks of the terrified 
 brute ! The lone gulches thundered with the beat of 
 hoofs. Bushes flew past, and each was a pursuing 
 black spirit ! 
 
 Shanugahi clung closely to the pony s back, hiding 
 his face in its tossing mane, clasping its neck with 
 the strength of madness, pressing its ribs with his 
 knees until the straining animal groaned with pain 
 and fright. Through valleys, over hills, down 
 
THE SMILE OF GOD 225 
 
 gulches they fled! Clumps of sage brush flitted past, 
 and each was a heap of whitened bones! 
 
 It was like falling in a nightmare through an im 
 measurable black pit, save for the scamper of the 
 coyote as it sought the gulches, whining, or the 
 tumbling flight of the owl or bat, fleeing with 
 wings that whirred in the stillness! 
 
 The pace of the pony became slower and slower. 
 Its breath came in short, rasping gasps. Then with 
 a last effort of its terrified limbs, it took the long 
 incline of a high hill, and upon the bare summit 
 tumbled to its knees. Shanugahi rolled off its back, 
 and horse and rider, worn out, swooned upon the 
 summit. 
 
 When Shanugahi awoke, the pale light that fore 
 goes the coming sun lay upon the shivering hills. 
 He looked about him and saw a circle of grey wolves 
 staring at him with eyes like small moons dawn- 
 stricken. He felt about him for a weapon, but found 
 only his stone pipe and a pouch of red willow bark. 
 
 He filled his pipe and striking a spark from a bit 
 of flint that strewed the summit, he lit it. Then the 
 sun peeped over the far sky line and with its hori 
 zontal rays touched the hills with fire. Its light 
 warmed the frozen nerves of Shanugahi. He puffed 
 grey rings of smoke into the air. 
 
 At length, taking his pipe from his mouth, he 
 reared his hideous body in the glow of the morning, 
 and with a long, bony arm, raised his pipe to the 
 smiling sun in silent invocation. For some time, 
 
226 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 motionless, he stood like a being of the black depths 
 praying for mercy from the shining heights. Then 
 he uttered two words. 
 
 "Wakunda! Tae!" (O God! Bison!) 
 
 The staring wolves, moved by the wild voice, 
 raised their noses to the heavens with a howl, and 
 slunk away into the gulches. The sun rose higher 
 and higher, and Shanugahi breathed into his veins 
 the laughing gold of the morning. With all the 
 simplicity of his nature, he forgot the terror of the 
 night. It was to him as some vague dream, dreamed 
 many summers past. Yet the one fixed idea of find 
 ing the bison swayed his whole being. 
 
 His hunger had reached that stage in which it 
 acts like a heavy draught of some subtle intoxicant. 
 The stupor of days past had been changed into a 
 joyous and even hopeful delirium. And as he looked 
 upon the sun, to him it was the smile of Wakunda ! 
 Now he would find the bison. 
 
 He caught his pony, grazing near by, and leaping 
 upon its back, urged its stiffened limbs into a jog and 
 took the lonesome stretch of prairie with song upon 
 his lips. All day the pony jogged across the prairie 
 at an easy pace toward the west. At that time of the 
 evening when the coolness comes with the dew, and 
 the bugs awake with drowsy hummings among the 
 grasses, Shanugahi caught a roaring sound as of some 
 sullen storm that thunders beneath the horizon. 
 
 He checked his pony and placing his hands to his 
 ears, listened intently. He knew the sound! Dis- 
 
THE SMILE OF GOD 227 
 
 mounting, he crawled to the top of a hill and gazed 
 into a broad valley. 
 
 As far as he could see, straining his eyes, the valley 
 was black with bison ! For a moment he stood spell 
 bound; then a great joy lashed his blood into a 
 frenzy. He rushed to his pony and mounting, 
 turned its head to the east. The night came down, 
 and still Shanugahi held his pony to a fast gallop. 
 His brain whirled giddily. Now he had found the 
 bison ! His people would not starve. He sang and 
 shouted and laughed until his voice broke into a 
 cackle ! The delirium of the rider was caught by 
 the pony. With all the might of long generations 
 of prairie herds, it sent the thundering hills and 
 valleys under its feet. 
 
 At that time of the morning when the east grows 
 pale, and sleep is the deepest, the famished tribe, 
 having moved a weary day s journey westward, was 
 sleeping heavily. Suddenly a hoarse shout shattered 
 their dreams and made the hills clamorous with 
 echoes ! 
 
 The whole camp leaped from its blankets and 
 stared with blinking eyes in the direction of the 
 shout. 
 
 There, upon the brow of a hill that overlooked 
 the camp, stood a horse and rider set in bold relief 
 against the pale sky of morning. With a long, bony 
 arm the rider pointed to the westward and again he 
 cried in a weak, broken voice : 
 
 "Tael Tae!" (Bison! bison!) 
 
228 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Then horse and rider collapsed like the figures of 
 a dream that wavers with the morning. A number 
 of men rushing up the hill, found the bodies of the 
 pony and Shanugahi. Upon the lips of the dead 
 rider lingered a calm smile as of contentment. 
 
 " It is the smile of Wakunda," said one old man 
 in awe. 
 
 "Wakunda smiles! Wakunda smiles!" shouted 
 the men. The whole camp caught up the cry. 
 " Bison ! Bison ! Wakunda smiles ! " 
 
 And when the sun arose, they were moving west 
 ward on the trail of Shanugahi. 
 
 Two nights afterward there was joy in the camp 
 of the Omahas. Having found the long-sought-for 
 herd, they had feasted heavily, and now they slept 
 as the wolf sleeps when the prey has not escaped. 
 Beside a fire two old men were still awake, and as 
 they smoked, they talked of Shanugahi. He had 
 found the herd. Wakunda had smiled upon him; 
 and yet Shanugahi was ugly and a cripple! 
 
 "Ugh!" they both grunted after a thoughtful 
 silence, shaking their heads in wonderment at so in 
 comprehensible a thing. 
 
 Then they wrapped themselves in their blankets, 
 and slept. 
 
XVI 
 THE HEART OF A WOMAN 
 
 THE council of the fathers sat in the Big 
 Lodge with very grave faces, for they had 
 come together to pass judgment upon the 
 deed of a woman. As they passed the pipe about 
 the circle, there were no words; for in the silence 
 the good spirits may speak, and well they knew that it 
 is a big thing to sit in judgment. 
 
 And after a time of silence and deep thought, the 
 door-flap of the lodge was pushed aside by two who 
 came an old man bent with many loads, and a 
 woman in whose eyes the spring still lived. And 
 when the two had sat down without the circle, the 
 head chief spoke : " Let the man speak first." Then 
 the old man, who had brought the woman, arose. 
 
 " Fathers, you see a man with a sad heart, for I 
 have brought my daughter before you for judgment. 
 The things which she has told me I could have buried 
 very deep in my breast; but I am old, and the wis 
 dom of the old is mine. Who can bury a bad thing 
 deeper than the spirits see? 
 
 " And so I am here to make sharp words against 
 myself, for the father and the child are one. 
 
 " You remember that the season of singing frogs 
 229 
 
230 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 [April] has passed three times since one of the pale 
 faces came among us. He was a paleface, but he 
 was not like his brothers who find gladness in doing 
 deeds that are bad. You have not forgotten how 
 his words and deeds were kind, his voice very good 
 to hear, nor how his face had the beauty of a 
 woman s, though it was not a woman s face. Also 
 his hands were white as the first snow fallen on a green 
 place; and his hair was long like the hair of our 
 people, but it clung about his head like a brown cloud 
 when the evening is old. 
 
 " He was hungry and lean when he came among 
 us. His pony was hungry and lean. And we took 
 him in with glad hearts; we lit the feast fires for 
 him; his pony we staked in our greenest places: for 
 he was not like his brothers. 
 
 " And we called him the man with the singing 
 box, for he brought with him a thing of wood and 
 sinews; and over this, while we feasted, he drew a 
 stick of wood with the hair of a pony s tail fastened 
 to it, making songs sweeter than those of our best 
 women singers, and deeper than the voices of men 
 who are glad. 
 
 u Much we wondered at this, for the magic of 
 the paleface is a great magic. And as he made the 
 wood and sinews sing together, we forgot to eat and 
 the feast fires fell blue; for never before had such a 
 singing been heard in our lands. And once he made 
 it sing a battle song that snarled like a wounded 
 rattlesnake in a dry place, and cried like an angry 
 
THE HEART OF A WOMAN 231 
 
 warrior, and shrieked like arrows, and thundered 
 like many pony hoofs, and wailed like the women 
 when the band comes back with dead braves across 
 the backs of ponies. And as he made it sing this 
 song, even we who were wise leaped to our feet and 
 drew forth our weapons and shouted the war cry 
 of our people so great was the song. And when 
 our shouting ceased, the man made the medicine box 
 sing low and sweet and thin like a woman crying 
 over a sick zhinga zhinga [baby] in the night. And 
 we forgot the battle cries; we gave tears like old 
 women. 
 
 " Do you remember? This is the man of whom 
 I speak. 
 
 " Many young moons grew old and passed away, 
 and still he lived among us, until, lo ! he was even 
 as our kinsman, for he learned the tongue of our 
 people, being great of wit. 
 
 " And he told us of a wanderer whose own people 
 were unkind to him; a tale of one who was not of 
 the people of whom he was born, because he loved 
 the spirits that sing, more than a very rich man loves 
 his herds of ponies blackening many hills where they 
 graze. And it was of himself he told; he was the 
 wanderer. So we loved him because of this and be 
 cause of his kind words and because of the song 
 which he made in his medicine box. 
 
 "And all the while my girl here was growing 
 taller very good to see. Many times I said to my 
 woman, There is something growing between these 
 
232 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 two. And we both saw it with glad hearts, for he 
 was a great man. 
 
 " And one night in my first sleep I was awakened 
 by a crying of sorrows better to hear than laughter 
 a moan that grew loud and fell again into softness 
 like a night wind wailing in a lonesome place where 
 thickets grow. And my woman beside me whispered, 
 * It is the spirits singing. But the girl here only 
 breathed very hard. I could hear her breathing in 
 the darkness. 
 
 u And I got up; I pushed the skin flap aside; I 
 stood as though I were in a dream. For there by 
 the tepee stood the man with the singing box at his 
 neck. His long, white fingers worked upon the 
 sinews; his arm drew the hair-stick up and down. 
 His face looked to the sky and the white fires of the 
 night were upon it. Never had I seen such a face; 
 for it was not a man s face nor yet a woman s. It 
 was the face of a good man s spirit come back from 
 the star-paths. I looked at his lips, for it seemed 
 that the singing grew up from his mouth; but his 
 lips were very still. 
 
 "And my eyes made tears; for many forgotten 
 sorrows came back to me at once, and I felt a great 
 kindness for all things, which I could not understand. 
 
 u And when he dropped his arm and looked at 
 me, his eyes threw soft, white fire into my breast, 
 and then I knew the singing was not for me. Once 
 when my woman was young and still in the lodge of 
 her father, I looked upon her with such a look. 
 
THE HEART OF A WOMAN 233 
 
 "So I gave the girl to the paleface; and for a 
 time the singing box was still ; for they made a silent 
 music between them. And before the first frosts 
 made the hills shiver, the palefaces who trade for 
 furs came to our village, and the man went with 
 them; and with him went the woman. No man can 
 be deaf to the call of his kind; so he went. And now 
 the woman shall speak, and you shall judge her 
 deed." 
 
 The old man sat down and rested his face in his 
 hands. The young woman arose to her feet. With 
 lips parted the chiefs bent forward to catch the 
 words which should fall from her mouth. Tall and 
 thin she was, and shapely. But the shadows of a 
 great toil and a great sorrow clung about her lean 
 cheeks and under her black eyes, grown too big with 
 much weeping. 
 
 " Fathers," she began, " I will tell you how my 
 bad deed grew upon me ; and you shall judge. I will 
 take the punishment, for I have felt much aching 
 of the breast and I can stand yet a little more. 
 
 " Three summers ago I followed the man of the 
 singing box into the North. This you know but 
 the rest you do not know. It is the way of the pale 
 face to toil for the white metal. They showed my 
 man the white metal, and it led him into the North 
 among strange peoples, where there is much gather 
 ing of furs. And I went with him, for a woman is 
 weak and must follow the man. 
 
 " Far into the North we went where the Smoky 
 
234 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Water runs thin so that a very little man can 
 throw a stone across it. And the singing box went 
 with us. 
 
 " And we built a lodge of logs, after the manner 
 of his people, near to a great log lodge where the 
 big pale chief lived and said words that should be 
 obeyed. And for a time our hearts sang together. 
 But when the snows had come, it happened that the 
 big pale chief spoke a word, and my man went with 
 his brothers, driving many dogs further into the 
 North where there are furs of much worth. 
 
 " And when my man left he said, Take good care 
 of Vylin while I am gone, for she is dearer to me 
 than my life. And I stared at him because I did not 
 understand. It was the singing box of which he 
 spoke; as though it were a person he spoke of it; he 
 called it Vylin; and much I wondered. 
 
 u But because my heart was warm toward the man, 
 I did acts of kindness to the singing box, which he 
 called Vylin; for I had not yet learned that it was 
 no box of wood, but the spirit of a dead woman of 
 the palefaces. 
 
 " Through the long cold nights I held it close to 
 me under the blankets. And often in the night I 
 was awakened by its crying when in my sleep I 
 touched it strongly. Like a zhinga zhinga [baby] 
 it cried; and my heart was softened toward it, for 
 I had no child then. Through the days I talked to 
 Vylin. I washed it much that it might be clean and 
 of a good smell. And often it made soft sounds 
 
THE HEART OF A WOMAN 235 
 
 like a zhinga zhinga that is glad. Then would I 
 hold it to my dry breasts and sing to it. 
 
 " But more and more I learned that it was no 
 box of wood, but a living thing. For I began to 
 see that it had the shape of a woman. Its neck was 
 very slender; its head was small; and its hair fell in 
 four little braids across its neck and breast down to 
 its hips. And the more I learned,, the more my breast 
 ached ; for he loved Vylin, and her voice was sweeter 
 for singing than my voice. And I thought much of 
 how she sang for him alone. And I said, She does 
 not sing for me only for him does she sing; there 
 fore she loves him well. 
 
 " When the grass came again and the ice broke 
 up, my man came back with the furs and the dogs 
 and the men. They came floating down the river 
 on big canoes. And I sang when he came again into 
 his lodge, for the winter had been long. Also, I 
 showed him how kind I had been to Vylin ; I thought 
 he would be very glad. But he frowned and spoke 
 sharp words. He said it was wrong to wash Vylin. 
 My breast ached ; I could not understand. Does not 
 a good mother wash her zhinga zhinga, that it may 
 be clean and of a good smell? I had no zhinga 
 zhinga then, and so I had been a mother to Vylin. 
 
 "And when I told him this, he laughed a very 
 harsh laugh, and said it was Vylin, not a zhinga 
 zhinga; so that I was sad until he spoke a very soft 
 word, then I forgot for many days. 
 
 " But as the grass grew taller and the scent of 
 
236 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 green things blew in every wind, my man grew 
 strange toward me. Like a man with the ache for 
 home he was. And more and more it became his 
 mood to be very silent while he made Vylin sing to 
 him O such strange, soft songs, like spirits weeping ! 
 
 " And more and more my heart grew sore toward 
 Vylin, for when I sang that he might forget her to 
 look upon me, he frowned and spoke sharp words. 
 
 " So one day as he sat in a shady place, making 
 songs with his fingers, I said to him : * If so softly 
 you should lay your fingers upon my neck, I too could 
 sing as sweetly ! And he smiled, and it was like 
 the sun breaking through a cloud that has hung long 
 over the day. And he drew me close to him and said : 
 * Do you see the leaves upon this tree, and do you 
 know how many? And I laughed, for I was glad, 
 and in the old days it had often been his wish to 
 joke so. But he said: * So many of the palefaces 
 have listened to me making Vylin sing; and they 
 wept to hear. But now am I far away and strange 
 peoples are about me. 
 
 " And that was the last of my gladness for many 
 moons; for more and more he wished to be silent. 
 And when the snows came again he went away. And 
 I was very lonesome and sad until I knew that I 
 would be a mother. Then my heart sang, for I 
 said : Now, my man will look upon me again and 
 speak soft words as in the old times. Does Vylin 
 bring him zhinga zhingas? 
 
 "And all through the cold days I was glad; my 
 
THE HEART OF A WOMAN 237 
 
 heart was soft. I took good care of Vylin; I was 
 kind to her, for at last I thought that she would be 
 second in his heart. I pitied her as I thought this. 
 I washed her no more, but ever through the frosty 
 nights I kept her warm with many blankets, even 
 though I shivered. 
 
 "And when the grass came my man came also. 
 And another came, a nu zhinga [boy]. But my 
 man looked with cold eyes upon my zhinga zhinga; 
 so I wept many nights, many, many nights. And 
 much weeping made me not good to see. So the 
 man looked upon me no more; only upon Vylin did 
 he look. With very soft eyes did he look upon her; 
 with such eyes did he look upon me in the old days. 
 
 " My heart grew very bitter. Often I heard him 
 talking soft talk to her such as he talked to me in 
 the old times. And I wished to tear her hair, her 
 yellow hair from her head! I wished to kill her, to 
 walk upon her, to hear her groan, to see her die ! " 
 
 The woman s eyes flashed a battle light. Her 
 hands were clenched, her face was sharp and cruel. 
 Very tall she grew in her anger a mother of 
 fighting men. 
 
 " And that night," she said, " I threw angry 
 words at the man. I spoke bad things of Vylin. I 
 called great curses down upon her. And I said: 
 * She sings, but does she bring you sons to feed you 
 when you are old? And he laughed with a harsh 
 sound. 
 
 u So that night when the man slept I got up very 
 
238 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 stealthily from the blankets. My breast ached, and 
 many black spirits pressed their fingers into my heart. 
 I took a knife a very sharp knife. I uncovered 
 Vylin where she lay sleeping in her blankets. I felt 
 for the place where her heart should be. Then I 
 struck, struck, struck! Very deep I sent the sharp 
 knife, and I laughed to hear the great groan that 
 Vylin made as she died. 
 
 " And also the man heard. He leaped from his 
 blankets. He struck me with his fist; he beat me. 
 He called down all the big curses of his people upon 
 me. He gave me the nu zhinga. He pushed me 
 from the door into the darkness. 
 
 " * Begone ! he said, for you have killed Vylin ! 
 
 " And I went into the darkness with my nu zhihga. 
 
 Many days have I walked with much hunger; and 
 
 always the nu zhinga was a heavy burden. And now 
 
 I am thin; my feet are weary; my breast aches." 
 
 A deep sighing shook the young woman as she 
 sat down. The old man arose, and there was a 
 sound of heavy breathing as he spoke to the chiefs 
 who sat to judge: " My girl has spoken of her bad 
 deed. She has killed the singing spirit that the pale 
 face loved. How shall she be punished? " 
 
 And after a long stillness the head chief spoke: 
 " The heart of a woman is a strange thing, a tender 
 thing; who shall judge it? " 
 
 And one by one they who sat to judge arose and 
 left the big lodge. 
 
XVII 
 MIGNON 
 
 BUT, Yellow Fox," I protested, "no one 
 understands them; they do not understand 
 themselves ! " 
 
 Yellow Fox grunted and smiled, showing a very 
 white set of wolfish teeth. We two were sitting 
 together outside the lodge, and, male-like, we had 
 hit upon the topic of woman. The locust-like ca 
 dences of the songs and the shuffle of dancing feet 
 came muffled to us. The scent of boiling beef and the 
 good smoke-tang of wood fires permeated the sultry 
 night air, lifting my not overcivilised fancy back 
 into the spacious star-hung feast rooms of the dead 
 years, where big-boned, brawny, fighting men in 
 dulged their lusts for steaming haunches. The full 
 moon lifted a Rabelaisian face of lusty red above 
 the hills, and I saw by its light the eager spirit of the 
 story-teller bright in the eyes of Yellow Fox. 
 
 " What they understand I do not know," he 
 began; " I only know I do not understand. And I 
 have travelled far. When I was a young man, many 
 strange valleys knew my feet, and from many hill 
 tops my eyes looked forth. For from my first moc 
 casins my feet caught the itch for going. And in 
 many villages of strange peoples I have lived for 
 
 239 
 
2 4 o THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 little spaces, until the feasts were tasteless and the 
 maidens ugly. Then did my moccasins itch my feet 
 again, so that I went forth and sought new feasts, 
 other maidens. 
 
 " And I have known many maidens. None of 
 them did I understand; and least of all Mignon. 
 
 " Even to-night something of the soft summer 
 smell of her is in my nose; and if I were not old I 
 would walk far, walk far; for that smell is like a 
 voice calling over big waters and many valleys a 
 voice so far away that the ear does not catch it so 
 thin that it is no sound, but a feeling. 
 
 " Have I told you how that a white man came to 
 our lands once and led me on a long, strange trail? 
 It happened so. He was a keeper of many strange 
 men and many horses and many strange animals, 
 and for money he showed these to many peoples, 
 and so grew rich. 
 
 "And the man showed me much money; he told 
 me of new lands and new peoples ; he spoke of feasts, 
 of women that were as dreams. Therefore, I felt 
 the itch in my feet again, and I went with the man. 
 And we came at last to many big tepees, where the 
 man kept the strange things that he showed to the 
 people for money. One of his tepees was as big 
 as the village of a tribe and he had many. 
 
 " I had my place among all these strange things; 
 for the white man said : 4 You are the wild man that 
 growls like a bear and eats babies. I give you money 
 and you must look very wild and growl much when 
 
MIGNON 241 
 
 the boys stick at you with straws. 1 And this was 
 good fun. 
 
 " So I stood twice every day fastened to a post 
 by a thong of metal. The people stood about me 
 a,nd stared. I growled, I pulled at the fastenings, 
 I ate raw meat; I was very wild. Many came to 
 see, and when I would have gone back to the lands 
 of my people, the white man showed me more money, 
 so that I stayed. 
 
 " We travelled very far with the big tepees. We 
 came to the Big Salty Water, but we did not stop 
 there; we crossed it and were in another land. 
 
 " And then there was a big village a very big 
 village. There we stopped, and the people came 
 to see. 
 
 "You know that vilPge Par s Par s? " asked 
 Yellow Fox, falling momentarily into English. 
 
 " Yes, Paris," I corrected, " and you were with 
 Barnum." 
 
 " Ah," he assented, speaking his own tongue 
 again ; " and it is a village of women that make the 
 eyes glad and the blood quick! I stood many days, 
 growling for the people and eating raw meat. And 
 one day Mignon came. A young man of her own 
 people was with her. They stared and talked much 
 together. Some of their talk I knew, for it was the 
 talk that the fur traders used, and my father s father 
 was a trader for furs. 
 
 " And Mignon made the eyes glad. She was tall 
 for a woman and not thick. The women of my 
 
242 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 people are short and thick. Her face was very white, 
 and her eyes were big and deep like waters in a 
 shadow. 
 
 " And the man made jokes at me that stung like 
 elkhorn whips, for he was thin and looked as one 
 whose blood is half water. I could have choked him 
 with two fingers like a worm. So! " 
 
 Yellow Fox snapped his fingers viciously. 
 
 " And it pleased the young man to shove his 
 finger into my ribs and laugh. So I grasped his arm 
 very hard. I put his finger to my mouth ; I bit it and 
 the blood came. He cried ow ow; then I said to the 
 woman, using what speech of hers I knew : Take 
 this baby man of yours away or I will eat him, for 
 I am hungry. But you are good to see; I like you; 
 touch me. 
 
 " And she, wondering that I spoke her speech, 
 touched me! 
 
 " Ah everything was changed!" 
 
 Yellow Fox suddenly passed into a subconscious 
 mood. The moon, grown pale with its ascent, 
 illumined his masterful male features, over which 
 I could see the dream of old days flitting like a ghost. 
 The song of the women dancing about the feast 
 fires within arose into a high and tenuous minor of 
 yearning, filling up the momentary gap in the story 
 like a chorus. In the wake of the passing gust of 
 song, the voice of Yellow Fox arose, soft, low, 
 musical the voice of memory, 
 
 u Her hands she laid upon me soft and white 
 
MIGNON 243 
 
 and thin, they were. She passed them over the 
 muscles of my breast; she stroked my arms. Soft 
 as a mother s touch was hers; like a mother s touch 
 but I felt a fire burning at her finger tips, that 
 made me wish to fight big men for her, and make 
 them bleed and make them groan and make them 
 die, slobbering blood in the dust! Then afterward 
 to take her far away, thrown across my back like 
 a dead fawn; to build a lodge for her in a lonesome 
 place where man s face never was ! 
 
 " Much hair she had much hair that hung above 
 her face like a dark cloud upon a white sky at even 
 ing. And it brushed across my breast! I shivered 
 as in a wind that drives the snow before it and yet 
 I was not cold. 
 
 " And then she was gone swallowed up in the 
 river of people. But not all of her was gone. A 
 smell sweeter than the earth-smell when the spring 
 rains fall was in my nostrils! A smell that gnawed 
 within me like a hunger yet I did not wish to eat! 
 A smell of soft, white flesh oh, very soft and white 1 
 And now in my old age I call that smell Mignon. 
 
 " And the people, like a noisy, muddy stream, 
 flowed round me, past me. But I growled no more ; 
 for I did not wish for fun. I hated them they 
 stank! An ache like the ache for home was upon 
 me; an ache like the ache of a man who smells the 
 home-smoke in a dream and wakes far off from home. 
 
 " Two sunlights passed and in the evening I 
 stood under many lights, bound with the iron thongs; 
 
244 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 and the noisy, stinking stream of people was about 
 me. Their staring eyes were as many bugs that 
 swarmed about and stung me. I strained at the iron 
 thongs; I hurled the black curses of my people in 
 among them and they were pleased. But this was 
 no play; I wished to rush among them and walk 
 upon them; for I had seen, and now no longer did 
 I see. 
 
 " But suddenly the smell came back! It grew up 
 like the smell of spring when the ice makes thunder 
 in the rivers and the flowers come out ! And she was 
 there beside me. 
 
 " I forgot the people; I was no longer angry. I 
 was in a big lonesome prairie with the sunlight and 
 the singing winds, and she was with me, and all the 
 air seemed soft and cool as when a black-winged 
 raincloud shuts out a day of heat. 
 
 " I can feel her hands upon me yet." 
 
 Yellow Fox sighed. A passionate outburst of 
 song from the dancers within filled the quiet night 
 with sounds of longing, through which the cowhide 
 drums throbbed feverishly, like a heart. 
 
 " And the words she spoke were soft. They made 
 me wish to shout the mating songs of my people. 
 They made me very strong. And then I learned her 
 name Mignon. 
 
 " Mignon ! Mignon ! Such a sound the spring 
 winds make among the first leaves; and yet it is 
 not all a sound; it is part a smell! 
 
MIGNON 245 
 
 " And after that she came often ; every evening 
 she came, like a south wind blowing over prairies 
 sweet with rain at sunset. Many things she asked 
 me and I told her many things. I made with my 
 mouth a picture of my own lands; and some of it 
 she put in a little book, and some she only drank 
 with all her face, as though she was thirsty. 
 
 " And they who had travelled far with us, the 
 pitchers of the tepees and the tenders of the animals, 
 laughed softly in passing, showing their teeth in 
 mirth for were they not jealous? 
 
 " One night she did not come. And it happened 
 on that night that the big tepees were folded up for 
 another trail; and in the morning we were far away. 
 My breast cried out for her; my nose longed for the 
 smell which was Mignon. 
 
 " So I spoke of her to the pitchers of the tepees, 
 and they laughed very loud and long, sending forth 
 breaths that stank as they laughed. They said bad 
 things of Mignon. They said, Can you not under 
 stand? She is of those that her people have cast 
 out. And this made my breast cry out for her again ; 
 for was I not also alone? Were not my own people 
 far away? But the rest of it I knew to be another 
 white man s lie ! One liar I struck very hard in the 
 teeth ; and when he got up from the dust, slobbering 
 blood and toddling like a baby, he laughed no more 
 and said no more bad things of Mignon. And was 
 this not proof that he had lied? 
 
 " Is the first earth-smell of the spring bad? Had 
 
246 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 not many maidens of the prairies longed for me; 
 and were they not good? Was I not big and of 
 heavy muscles ? Was I not young and good for the 
 eyes of women? 
 
 " Since I am old and much withered, I can say 
 this; for I have become another man." 
 
 The song of the women-singers within had ceased, 
 but the sullen drums kept up a throbbing snarl. At 
 length the voice of Yellow Fox continued in a low 
 monotone : 
 
 u We stopped in many big villages ; and my breast 
 was sick. More and more I wished for the prairies. 
 At night I heard the dry winds singing in the grasses. 
 I spoke no more of Mignon, for I was afraid to hear 
 again the laughter of the pitchers of the tepees. One 
 more laugh would have made my eyes blind with 
 blood, and I would have killed. 
 
 " I lost the wish to eat ; I grew shadow-thin. So 
 the owner of the tepees said: * This wild man is 
 dying for a sight of his prairies; I will send him 
 back. 
 
 " I travelled far, and again I was in my own land. 
 I saw the hills; I smelled the smoke of the fires of 
 my people. But this no longer filled me. I had 
 seen, and now no longer could I see. 
 
 " And the winter came. I sat alone much, and 
 as I sat alone, I had big thoughts. I said: * This 
 that I have seen was a dream thing. It is gone ; and 
 I cannot find the sleep trail that leads to it again. 
 
MIGNON 247 
 
 Therefore, I will do as others. I will take a woman 
 of my own people. I will eat again ; for this dream 
 has only made me thin. , 
 
 " So I made a young woman of my people glad. 
 I took her into my lodge. But even through the time 
 of driving snows, I smelled the smell of spring. 
 Mignon ! Mignon ! I heard the rain winds singing 
 in the first leaves! Mignon! Mignon! I heard 
 the sighing of summer waters! Mignon! Mignon! 
 It was half a sound and half a smell dream sound, 
 dream smell so thin, so thin! 
 
 " And the time came when the big swift arrows 
 of the geese flew northward, spreading softness as 
 of many camp fires in all the air; and the River 
 wakened and shook itself, shouting with a hoarse 
 voice into the south. The green things came, and 
 there was a singing of frogs where the early rains 
 made pools. The smell, which was Mignon, 
 breathed up out of the earth; the sound, which was 
 Mignon, lived in the trees and grasses. 
 
 " And then the time came when it is no longer the 
 spring, and not yet quite the summer. One evening 
 I sat before my lodge, smoking and thinking big 
 thoughts. And the sun was low. A dust cloud grew 
 far down the road that twisted like a yellow snake 
 toward the village of the white men. It was a waggon 
 coming. It grew bigger; a white man was driving 
 it. It came near; there was a woman in it. I stared 
 very hard; I rubbed my eyes, for what I saw was 
 as though it had all grown up out of my pipe smoke. 
 
248 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " The woman was tall and not thick. Much hair 
 she had much hair that hung above her face like 
 a black cloud upon a white sky in the evening. And 
 in all the air about, there grew a smell sweeter than 
 the earth-smell when the spring rains fall. I sat 
 very still ; I did not wish to frighten the dream away. 
 And the woman came toward me with much rustling 
 of garments, like the speaking of green leaves in the 
 wind or the thin, small drumming of raindrops. 
 
 11 Then, between the puffing of two smoke rings, 
 the Spring had grown big and was the Summer ! It 
 was Mignon ! It was Mignon ! " 
 
 Yellow Fox lifted his face to the full moon, and 
 his voice was raised to a poignant cry as he uttered 
 the word that was half sound, half smell. Then for 
 some time he brooded with his chin resting in his 
 hands, while the women-singers within filled the 
 heavy air with wailings. At length he sat up and 
 leisurely filled his pipe. His face had become a 
 wrinkled mask again. He smoked awhile, then pass 
 ing the pipe to me, he continued, and his voice was 
 thick as though he still breathed smoke: 
 
 " After the snows have run away, the earth-smell 
 rises and all things grow drunk with it. The he-wolf 
 sniffs it; he forgets his last year s mate; he takes 
 another and forgets. The air and the earth and the 
 water are full of new loves, and nothing is ashamed. 
 
 " It was so. 
 
 " When the next sunlight came I made ready for 
 
MIGNON 249 
 
 the trail. I rolled up my tepee. All the while my 
 woman stared upon the woman who had come, with 
 eyes made sharp with hate. I called in my ponies 
 from the grazing places. I hitched a pony to the 
 drag. I put upon the drag the tepee and the food 
 and the little box that Mignon had brought with her 
 a box of many garments garments that made 
 songs when she walked, like the songs of rain in the 
 leaves. I lifted Mignon upon the drag-pony s back, 
 and we rode away on the summer trail. 
 
 " I heard my woman wailing and crying out bit 
 terly in my lodge, but a spirit led me on the spirit 
 that calls the green things out in the spring the 
 spirit that whispers into the ear of the sleeping River 
 and makes it leap up and shout and tear the thongs 
 that bind it the spirit that makes the wolves cry 
 out in the lonesome places that the mate may 
 hear. That spirit went calling down the trail I fol 
 lowed. 
 
 " And we came to a place by the river where the 
 hills were high and many leaves made coolness. 
 There I pitched the tepee ; and the days were as little 
 flashes of light, and the nights were as little shadows 
 passing. 
 
 " Never before had I found it so good to live. 
 Mignon made songs that laughed and cried; and 
 when she did not sing, the rustle of her garments was 
 a song. I became as a squaw; I brought the wood 
 and water; I made the fires; I cooked. I was bowed 
 before her. Never before had I bowed before any- 
 
250 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 one, for I was strong. I could not understand. She 
 was so soft and white and of so sweet a smell ! 
 
 " But the time came when she no longer sang. 
 She grew silent, and each day gazed long upon the 
 river. Her hands touched me no more with the 
 touch of soft fires. So I grew kinder still. I spoke 
 soft words. I made sweet sounds to call her. But 
 she frowned and pushed me away. 
 
 " My breast ached much, so I said: * You think 
 always of that baby man whose finger I bit. I could 
 choke him with my fingers so! But she laughed 
 in my face, making sharp jokes to fling at me. I was 
 stung as with whips when the whippers are angry. 
 I said : Go back to your baby man ! 
 
 " I did not wish her to go ; they were the words of 
 my anger. But she got up very straight and tall. 
 There was lightning in her eyes. Thunder slept in 
 her face. And her hair seemed as a black cloud that 
 blows up angrily out of the hot south ! 
 
 " She went to the tepee; she made ready to go; 
 and all the while I watched with fires in my breast. 
 Then suddenly she turned upon me her face was a 
 flame. She flung words at me : You are all the 
 same ! She spit in my face ! I have been struck in 
 the teeth by strong men, but never have I felt so 
 hard a blow. I sat as a man in a dream. I heard 
 the angry song of her skirts as she fled up the back- 
 trail. And then I was as one who wakens with a 
 great hunger, and smells raw meat! I leaped up; I 
 ran after her; I meant to kill her! 
 
MIGNON 251 
 
 " I caught her; I struck her with my fist, even as 
 I struck the man who lied. I put my fingers at her 
 throat and pressed very hard. I carried her back to 
 the tepee. I thought I had killed her. 
 
 " Oh, the smell of her flesh as she lay very still 
 as though I had stepped upon a flower ! 
 
 " And then after a long time, when my breast was 
 growing sick, she opened her eyes and looked upon 
 me. O tender, tender were her eyes and full of soft 
 fires ! It was the old look, only it was stronger. She 
 raised herself to her knees; she put her arms around 
 my neck; she put her lips on my lips; she called me 
 soft names! 
 
 " I thought this was some woman s trick. I pushed 
 her from me. I said : 1 1 am hungry ; you are my 
 squaw ; cook my food ! And she brought wood and 
 water; she made a fire; she worked for me. All the 
 while her eyes were soft, and often she touched me 
 with finger tips that burned as of old with soft fires. 
 I could not understand. When I was kind, then was 
 she not kind. And now, with the blue marks of my 
 angry fingers at her throat, she worked for me, her 
 eyes were soft for me, her finger-tips were warm for 
 me. I cannot understand." 
 
 Yellow Fox took the pipe from my hands and 
 smoked long in silence. He sighed deeply, breathing 
 in great breaths of smoke. At length, growing impa 
 tient, I ventured a question: " And what became of 
 Mignon? " 
 
 He laid down his pipe and said in a low voice: 
 
252 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " The woman who wailed in the lodge had not for 
 gotten ! 
 
 " The plums ripened," he continued, " and the 
 flowers that bloomed upon our summer trail were 
 heavy with seed. The hills grew brown. A grey- 
 ness like smoke was in all the air. The grapes hung 
 thick and purple. 
 
 " And it happened one night when the first small 
 pinch of frost was in the air, that Mignon would 
 sing soft baby songs, such as the mothers of her 
 people sang, she said. Oh, such soft, low songs! I 
 hear them yet. A kindness was in her face, like that 
 in the face of a young mother. I saw it by the light 
 of the wood fire that held the frost away. And when 
 she had sung much, as to a child, she put her hands 
 upon my shoulders and she said a strange thing. This 
 is what she said, I remember: * Sometime, Yellow 
 Fox, I will sing to your zhinga zhinga [baby] ; will 
 you be glad? 
 
 " And I wondered much, for her eyes were wet 
 when she said it. 
 
 " And that night she fell to sleep with her soft 
 hands clutching my arm. And something made me 
 wish to sing. I watched her sleeping, and there was 
 an ache in my breast when I remembered the feel of 
 my angry fingers at her throat. And then I slept. 
 
 " But in that time when the night is deepest and 
 sleep is like a weight upon the eyes, a sharp cry woke 
 me. I leaped up. The fire was almost dead. I 
 heard feet flying through the dead leaves into the 
 
MIGNON 253 
 
 darkness. One hand felt warm and wet; I raised it 
 to my nose and it was blood. And then I heard a 
 gasping for breath and a sound of gurgling. I put 
 my hand upon the breast of Mignon and it was wet 
 with blood! 
 
 " I scraped the embers together and made a little 
 flame. I looked upon her face and it had the look 
 of death. Eyes that ached she turned upon me. I 
 stopped the blood with torn garments. I called her 
 soft names and she clutched my fingers. Then she 
 was very quiet. I could hear leaves dropping out in 
 the night. 
 
 " And when the face of the night turned grey, she 
 opened her eyes that were hot and dry. With very 
 weak hands she drew my ear close to her lips. She 
 breathed a little broken piece of song a baby song 
 a song of the mothers of her people. And when 
 I looked upon her agairi, her face was pinched, her 
 eyes stared." 
 
 Yellow Fox lapsed into another prolonged silence. 
 The dancers and singers in the lodge had ceased. 
 A heavy, sultry silence filled the night. When he 
 spoke again his voice came low and muffled: 
 
 " I buried her after the manner of my people. I 
 sang the songs of the dead. Above her grave I 
 killed the pony that she rode. And then I went 
 away upon the trail that was no more the trail of 
 summer. But the winds in the grasses sang her 
 name. Mignon! Mignon! I heard the rain winds 
 
254 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 singing in the first leaves. Mignon! Mignon! I 
 heard the sighing of summer waters. Mignon! 
 Mignon! I smelled the smell of spring. Every 
 where it was Mignon! half sound, half smell 
 dream-sound, dream-smell so thin so thin." 
 
XVIII 
 
 A POLITICAL COUP AT LITTLE 
 OMAHA 
 
 THE struggle for Congressional honours in 
 the Third District of Nebraska was to be 
 a hard one. The white voters of the Dis 
 trict were about evenly divided between the two 
 parties, and therefore the necessary elective ma 
 jority was to be found among the Omaha Indians, 
 whose reservation lies in this district. 
 
 So this remnant of the Dark Ages became of 
 pivotal importance in Twentieth Century politics; 
 and it was here, in the wildest land of the district, 
 that the decisive battle of strategy must be fought. 
 
 For practical purposes, the intelligent white voter 
 ceased to exist, and there was only a slothful, igno 
 rant band of semi-savages who should choose by 
 chance the national representative of educated thou 
 sands. 
 
 The typical reservation Indian is primarily a 
 stomach, and secondarily nothing in particular. Let 
 him fill his belly and he is easily handled. This 
 axiom had been taken as a basis for action by the 
 whiphands of the Democratic Party, who, accord 
 ingly, scattered broadcast throughout the reservation 
 considerable quantities of the meat of superannuated 
 
 255 
 
256 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 bulls; sat in the feasts with cross-legged condescen 
 sion ; smoked the reeking stone pipes ; drank hot soup 
 with the suppressed shudders of a revolting stomach, 
 and called the brown men " brothers." 
 
 This had all worked very well in the latter days 
 of September, and there had been considerable re 
 joicing in local Democratic circles over the bright 
 prospects for a sweeping majority. 
 
 It was not until the first of October that the oppo 
 sition suddenly hurled a thunderbolt out of the blue 
 sky of its seemingly serene inactivity. The Agent, 
 holding his appointment under a Republican adminis 
 tration, announced at a weekly land payment that 
 $100,000 of the considerable sum held in trust by 
 the Government would be paid pro rata to the 
 Omahas during the month. It was after this an 
 nouncement that the local leaders of the Republican 
 Party became active. They explained to their 
 brothers how surpassingly good it was of them to 
 bring about this payment. Would their brothers 
 forget this at the November election? Of course 
 not! 
 
 So it happened that the bull meat lost its power of 
 persuasion and for several weeks there was not a 
 brown Democrat on the reserve. Thus, at the open 
 ing of the big payment on a Monday morning two 
 weeks before election, the Democratic candidate for 
 Congress found himself staring Defeat in the face 
 (which was brown) after having enjoyed several 
 weeks of victory (which was premature) . 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 257 
 
 The " big payment " has always been picturesque 
 and is now fast becoming impossible. It may be 
 defined as the spectacular bow of the Present to the 
 Past, with which Civilisation lowers its proud plume 
 and says to the Savage Age: " Sorry I swiped your 
 land; take that and don t feel sore! " Or words to 
 that effect. 
 
 The opening days of the big payment were warm 
 with the lazy warmth of the mellow, golden hours 
 of late October. The untilled hills of the reserva 
 tion thrust themselves up into the autumn glare, 
 unashamed of their poverty of soil. The Agency 
 building nestled forlornly in a creek valley sur 
 rounded by the yellow, wrinkled hills. 
 
 In the early morning a lazy string of vehicles be 
 gan to pour into the Agency from the dozen or more 
 roads that outraged the compass with their crazy 
 windings, and seamed the bronze face of the prairie 
 with ugly scars. Carts, buggies, waggons, carriages, 
 some of glaring newness, weighted down to the 
 axles with squaws, papooses and the inevitable mort 
 gage; others in an epileptic stage of decay, with the 
 weary air of having borne the weight of outlawed 
 paper for many moons; ponies, long-haired, and 
 emaciated with many unconsoling feeds of post and 
 halter, carrying at once upon their sawlike backs 
 their sweating, heavy masters, and (heavier than 
 these) the seeming consciousness of long-dishonoured 
 promissory notes; these constituted the grotesque 
 Republican procession that streamed into Little 
 
2 5 8 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Omaha, as the Agency is called, on that morning in 
 October. 
 
 It was as a tribal exodus. The entire tribe of 
 twelve hundred odd men, women, and children was 
 leaving its shacks and tepees that morning, in search 
 of the minted eagles of the Government, just as, of 
 old, they moved in a hungry body upon the trail of 
 the bison. 
 
 As the vanguard of this grand but dilapidated 
 army of the primitive world closed in upon the 
 Agency, it was met by the vanguard of the greater 
 commercial army of civilisation, and a wordy skir 
 mish ensued. These were the inevitable collectors 
 who hang about an Indian payment like a crowd of 
 crows scenting a carcass. One might have heard 
 such a conversation as this above the tumult of the 
 meeting races: 
 
 " Well, Big Bear, goin to pay that note to-day? " 
 
 "Ugh?" 
 
 "I say [voice raised a key], are you goin to 
 pay that note muska zhinga, wabugazee [money, 
 note] ? " 
 
 " Unkazhee! " (Don t understand.) 
 
 " Damn your black hide, Big Bear, you can talk 
 as good as I can! I say, [voice raised to a shriek] 
 if you don t pay that note, I ll come over to your 
 place and take every dodgasted, straw-bellied shonga 
 [pony] you ve got ! " 
 " "Gad up!" 
 
 And the delinquent debtor put the whip to his 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 259 
 
 long-haired, shambling mortgages and disappeared 
 in a cloud of dust. 
 
 The Omaha is a genius for contracting debts. At 
 the beginning of the big payment, the aggregate 
 debts of the tribe were roughly estimated at 
 $200,000, the living representative of long-digested 
 groceries, starved ponies, shattered vehicles and for 
 gotten alcoholic debauches. 
 
 The Government, in the wisdom of blindness, had 
 caused large placards to be posted at the entrances to 
 the Agency grounds, bearing this order: "No col 
 lector of any description shall be allowed within a 
 radius of half a mile from the pay station." Accord 
 ingly, the burly Indian police strutted about in blue 
 clothes and brass buttons obstreperously hustling the 
 white creditors over the half-mile line, where they 
 lounged in disconsolate groups along the dusty high 
 way, playing mumble-peg, pitching horseshoes, and 
 verbally sending the entire tribe to the devil. 
 
 " Be cussed if I don t hate to see the Twentieth 
 Century kicked downstairs this way by the Dark 
 Ages! Cussed if I don t! " Thus a little wiry, pale- 
 faced undertaker was heard to" exclaim. His name 
 was Comfort and he appeared to be a positive misery 
 both to himself and to the delinquent relatives of 
 the many good Indians he had laid away. 
 
 Beside the little undertaker, there were lawyers, 
 bankers clerks, grocerymen, liverymen, middlemen, 
 butchers, doctors, and a half dozen politicians, there 
 for the purpose of whipping the brown voters into 
 
260 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 line. There were men like wolves, bears, dogs, 
 goats, roosters, beetles, scorpions. The little under 
 taker was the scorpion ; a middleman was like a bear ; 
 there was a banker s clerk like a goat; and a thin, 
 angular, tall politician, with a body appropriately 
 like an interrogation point, who slunk about like a 
 hungry wolf. 
 
 By ten o clock the last stragglers of the tribe had 
 arrived and the Agency grounds were filled with 
 circles of sweating, brown men, women, and children, 
 passing the stone pipe, tranquilly awaiting the coming 
 of the Agent, whose name, upon a reservation, is a 
 shout. 
 
 By 10:30 the Agent appeared, riding down the 
 dusty road from his residence. He was preceded by 
 mounted police of pompous bearing, who shouted 
 "The Agent! Make way for the Agent!" to the 
 circles of their tribesmen who sat in the dust of the 
 highway. 
 
 A short while afterward the loungers at the half- 
 mile line heard the voice of a crier at the door 
 of the pay station, calling the first name on the roll 
 in the golden autumnal silence. 
 
 " Nuzhee Monaf Geegoho!" (Rain Walker! 
 Come here!) 
 
 Then the fact that Mr. Rainwalker, a leader of 
 the tribe much indebted to the white man, was about 
 to be paid, became volatile as ammonia, and the flut 
 tering of time-yellowed legal paper was heard along 
 the waiting line of creditors. 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 261 
 
 " Owes me $6.46 with interest for four years! " 
 
 "Me $25 and interest outlawed! " 
 
 " IVe got the old cuss s note for fifty! " 
 
 " I buried his fourth and sixth wives," squeaked 
 the little undertaker, " seven and nine years ago, 
 respectively ! " 
 
 Such exclamations ran down the line like a volley 
 in different variations of vocal emphasis. 
 
 "Wonder how he s votin ," mused the hungry 
 wolf of a politician. 
 
 " To the devil with politics! " roared the bear of 
 a middleman; "I want the rent back I advanced 
 him!" 
 
 At that moment Mr. Rainwalker was seen to leave 
 the station, mount his pony, and proceed down the 
 dusty road toward the half-mile line. It had doubt 
 less occurred to him that during past winters it had 
 been necessary to eat, and he was coming forth to 
 make peace with the groceryman. 
 
 At sight of the approaching debtor, the lounging 
 line of creditors sprang to its feet and stood at atten 
 tion. The grocer, who spoke the Omaha tongue 
 fluently and had a snug fortune laid away in conse 
 quence, walked rapidly in advance of the others and 
 met Mr. Rainwalker at the line, followed by the 
 straggling crowd of expectant creditors like a trail 
 ing cloud of hungry crows. 
 
 Mr. Rainwalker had a large, round, pockmarked 
 face that looked for the world like a pumpkin pie 
 overbaked by a careless cook, with a monstrous nose 
 
262 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 in the centre of it. He sat placidly upon his pony, 
 that had all the salient points of a starved cow, and 
 dozed luxuriously at the shortest halt. The old 
 chief seemed the visible body of an optimistic joke, 
 sitting upon the bone heap of a tragedy! 
 
 The grocer had barely collected the greater share 
 of the old man s check, when he became the centre of 
 a noisy, gesticulating crowd of creditors. It was the 
 chatter of the crows about the carrion. 
 
 * You know you promised me that you would 
 settle that note ! " said the goatlike bank clerk in his 
 bleating voice. 
 
 " How about that rent money I advanced, Rain- 
 walker? " roared the bearlike middleman. 
 
 " I want my money for them wives I buried for 
 you two of *em!" squeaked the scorpionlike under 
 taker, holding up two explanatory lingers and thrust 
 ing his thin, pale face into the melee. 
 
 " Ugh ! " the old man answered rather unsatis 
 factorily. 
 
 " If you don t pay me," shrieked the incensed 
 little undertaker, " I ll go right out on the hill and 
 dig up them boxes, by God! " 
 
 " Muska ningay!" (no money) said the old man. 
 " No pay em chil n s money tall. All time lie to 
 us. Goan votem Dimmiticrat, guess." 
 
 And with this statement, bearing with it the fate 
 of a national representative, the old chief kicked the 
 tenacious slumber out of his pony and rode back to 
 the Agency. 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 263 
 
 "Eh?" ejaculated the politician; " Votin Demo 
 cratic, eh ? Well, I ll be cussed I It ll snow us under ! 
 Why in thunder do they refuse to pay the money to 
 the minor children ? I tell you, gentlemen, it ll snow 
 us under! " 
 
 " Drat politics!" squeaked the little undertaker. 
 " Wisht I d a-buried em all afore now. Cussed if 
 I don t go right out on that there hill and dig them 
 boxes up ! " 
 
 The day wore on with an alarming recrudescence 
 of Democracy among the red men (who are not red, 
 but chocolate). In the afternoon, the little under 
 taker chased White Horse, another leading man of 
 the tribe, into the brush and returned with a broad 
 grin upon his face. 
 
 " Beats the devil! " ejaculated the thin politician, 
 "where a body sometimes finds merriment! How s 
 he votin , Comfort?" 
 
 " Votin Democrat the whole cussed posse of 
 J em! But I don t give a cuss Democrat or Re 
 publican money s all the same to me. I got $15; 
 one of his kids I planted five years ago; died of 
 Cuban itch ; four-foot pine box ! He, he, he ! I don t 
 give a cuss how they re votin ." 
 
 That night there was a meeting of Republican 
 politicians at the Agency office. A most alarming 
 landslide had begun that day, bearing disaster to the 
 ranks of the Grand Old Party. 
 
 " Some more of those confounded departmental 
 rulings ! " exclaimed the Agent to the company pres- 
 
264 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 ent. " It s this grandmotherly solicitude for the 
 Indian that makes him an irresponsible scamp. Why, 
 if the Government had turned them all loose to sink 
 or swim a decade ago, Natural Law would, by this 
 time, have solved the much mooted Indian question. 
 But what are we to do? " And the Agent stroked 
 his Van Dyke beard in perplexity. 
 
 " We ve got to do something," said the lean wolf 
 with the body like a question mark; "and there s 
 only one thing to do get Meekleman here. You 
 remember how he wheedled them into line four years 
 ago. If there s a man in the world who can bring 
 them around, it s Meekleman. And we d better get 
 McBarty here, too. The two of them may be able 
 to kick up a successful powwow." 
 
 Charles D. Meekleman was a Nebraska politician 
 who was almost a statesman, and had held important 
 positions in Washington official circles. McBarty 
 was the Republican candidate for Congress. It was 
 decided that they should be sent for at once. 
 
 It was Friday evening when the two great men 
 arrived; and upon Saturday morning they came forth 
 and allowed themselves to be gazed upon freely. 
 McBarty was a heavy-set, middle-sized man, with an 
 earnest expression of countenance, and the rather 
 bewildered air of a candidate being led forth to 
 sacrifice for the first time. Meekleman was tall, 
 superbly built, clad in the faultless manner and bear 
 ing about him that air of refinement which had won 
 him from his rural constituents the name of " Gen- 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 265 
 
 tleman Charlie." The manner of his shaking hands 
 with any comer was most consummate flattery; and 
 although it was done with an air of magnanimous 
 condescension, there was something masterful in his 
 eyes, looking down kindly from his heavy brows, as 
 from a battlemented tower, that established the 
 utmost confidence. He had the happy faculty of 
 disposing of a boiled potato at a farmhouse with a 
 refined dignity acquired over many a French dish 
 at the banquets of the distinguished; and the manner 
 in which he addressed a bunch of squaws and bucks 
 as " ladies and gentlemen," was surpassingly suave. 
 
 The two great men strolled leisurely, arm in arm, 
 down the dusty road to the pay station, stopping 
 often to shake hands with the Omahas, and radiating 
 smiles like small human suns. When they had 
 reached the pay station, Mr. Meekleman approached 
 the Agent, busy signing checks, and said in his big, 
 clear, slow voice, that it might be heard by the loung 
 ing Indians: " Major, I wish you would announce 
 to the gentlemen that I want to talk to them this 
 evening over at Fire Chief lodge. Tell the gentle 
 men that I am very much grieved for them, and that 
 I shall endeavour to right their wrongs;" and he 
 raised his heavy brows and condescendingly smiled 
 upon the brown loungers, while the Agent instructed 
 a policeman to make the announcement. 
 
 That evening a party consisting of the Agent, 
 Messrs. Meekleman and McBarty, and several local 
 politicians, proceeded on foot to Fire Chief lodge, 
 
266 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 which is a large octagonal shack placed in a lone 
 some valley a mile distant from the Agency. 
 
 "Brace up, Mac!" said Meekleman, as the two 
 walked along the lonesome prairie road. " To-night 
 I shall have the honour to make a man of you the 
 Honourable James McBarty ! Have a cigar and try 
 to keep cool." 
 
 " Yes, thanks. I was just feeling a little surprised 
 at the lonesome road that seems to lead to Congress 
 that was all. Do you really suppose we can win 
 them over? " 
 
 u Well, you shall see," returned Meekleman. 
 " Follow my suit and don t make faces at the soup; 
 for one really must drink soup, you know, to be 
 Congressman from this district. I say, Mac, did you 
 ever smoke killikinick? Well, anyway, I advise you 
 to smoke it to-night till the back of your neck aches. 
 Ha, ha ! There is really no royal road to Congress, 
 Mac ! " And Meekleman slapped the candidate 
 upon the shoulder and filled the great prairie silence 
 with jovial laughter. 
 
 As the party neared the lodge, from which the 
 light of the fire within streamed out through the 
 windows into the moon haze, they heard the sound 
 of the drum and the singing that accompanies an 
 Indian feast; a wild melodious flight of notes, 
 threaded with the snarl of the drum like the beat of 
 a fevered temple, rising in ecstasy, like the wail of 
 a fitful night wind in the scrub oaks of a bluff, and 
 falling suddenly to die in a guttural note like the 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 267 
 
 burr of a wounded rattlesnake. A barbaric music 
 filled with the sounds of Nature and old as the 
 wrinkled prairie ! 
 
 " This," said Meekleman, stopping near the en 
 trance to listen to the deep, beautiful voices within, 
 " This, McBarty, is the Indian of romance. Now for 
 the bitter truth and the soup ! " 
 
 As they entered the long, narrow passageway lead 
 ing into the lodge, they saw before them a large 
 octagonal room with a wood fire blazing in the 
 centre. About the dusky walls the huge, perverted 
 shadows of the singers flitted in grotesque dances as 
 they swayed in the ecstasy of song. A circle of 
 brown men sat about the sputtering fire over which a 
 large iron kettle steamed forth the scent of beef. 
 Near the circle sat the smaller circle of drum 
 mers about a washtub with a cowhide stretched 
 across it. 
 
 Within the larger circle near the fire, sat a squaw, 
 cutting bits of beef from a quantity of ribs that she 
 held conveniently in her lap. 
 
 " Shade of Mrs. Rorer! " exclaimed the would-be 
 Congressman in a whisper to his companion; " is that 
 the soup ? " 
 
 "Hist!" returned Meekleman; "one should be 
 willing to suffer for his country! " 
 
 At the entrance of the great men, the singing 
 ceased abruptly, and the singers turned their sullen, 
 brute-like eyes upon their visitors and grunted. 
 
 " Are there any of the leading men here? " asked 
 
268 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 Meekleman of the Agent. Rainwalker and White 
 Horse were both present. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Meekleman, pointing to an unusually 
 homely old Indian; " who is that black scamp with 
 the big face and the remarkably stupendous 
 nose?" 
 
 "Rainwalker," replied the Agent; "a leader; it 
 would be well to make peace with him first." 
 
 Meekleman approached the old chief with his soft, 
 white hand extended and his face the picture of 
 rapture. 
 
 "Well, well, Rainwalker! Here you are! Fm 
 glad to see you, Mr. Rainwalker! How well you 
 look; I needn t ask about your health; your com 
 plexion could scarcely be surpassed! " 
 
 Mr. Rainwalker turned a shade lighter with pride 
 and grinned, returning the great man s salutation 
 with a large bunch of beef-scented silence. 
 
 Meekleman sat down cross-legged in the circle 
 and took the circulating stone pipe in his turn, smoked 
 heroically and drank large quantities of hot soup. 
 The sullen faces of the firelit circle brightened. Old 
 Rainwalker began to talk in his own tongue, staring 
 meanwhile meditatively into the fire. For several 
 minutes his deep musical voice ran on with occasional 
 dignified pauses and gestures indicating that he spoke 
 of the great white man beside him. Meekleman 
 gave an Indian youth a coin to act as interpreter. 
 
 " He says," said the youth, " that you all time 
 walk with good people and eat good stuff, but you 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 269 
 
 are not too good, he says, to smoke and eat with us, 
 he says. He likes you pretty much, guess." 
 
 The old chief talked again for some time, and 
 then lapsed into dignified silence. 
 
 " He says," continued the youth, " that you have 
 lived in the same lodge with the Big Father at Wash 
 ington, and you can get the money for the chiFns, he 
 guess. That s what he says." 
 
 " Tell my dear brother," said Meekleman, " that 
 my heart is warm toward my brown brothers, and 
 that the children shall have their money. Tell him 
 that I played with the Big Father when he was a 
 little boy, and that I know the Big Father would be 
 terribly angry if he knew that the children had been 
 refused their money. Tell him that I will see that 
 they get it." 
 
 This short speech translated, sent a murmur of joy 
 around the circle. White Horse arose from the 
 opposite side of the circle and brought a cup of hot 
 soup to his white brother as a special favour. 
 
 " And now," said Meekleman, arising majestically 
 as befitted the erstwhile playmate of the President, 
 " I shall introduce to you Mr. McBarty. He will 
 go to Washington for you and he will do many good 
 things for the Omahas." 
 
 Mr. McBarty came forth and fell to shaking the 
 brown hands of the grown-up children. He started 
 with Rainwalker, who carefully rubbed his left hand 
 upon his blanket before presenting it to the future 
 saviour of his race. Then after having shaken all 
 
270 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the hands, including that of the squaw who stripped 
 beef from the ribs, the potential Congressman fell 
 heroically upon the soup and the killikinick. 
 
 An old Indian placed cross-legged near a wood fire 
 with the feel of hot soup in his belly, invariably be 
 comes reminiscent. Old White Horse sat staring 
 into the sputtering flame with his face as expression 
 less as a stone statue of Buddha, and his voice began 
 in a low, musical tone, rising as his memory quick 
 ened, and modulated with great oratorical skill, 
 for which he was noted in the tribe. His words 
 translated ran thus: 
 
 " These new times are not like the old times. 
 When we old men were young and the bison still 
 bellowed on the prairies, we were strong and swift 
 and wise. Now we are weak and slow and not wise. 
 I cannot understand. It is all like a day when there 
 is fog everywhere. When we were young and 
 fought the Pawnees and the Sioux, there were no 
 bigger, wiser men than Nuzhee Mona [Rainwalker] 
 and Shonga Ska [White Horse]. Look at us now! 
 We are old and slow and we cannot see far to-day. 
 Once when I was young I found a sick bison bull 
 wandering in the hills. He was weak and half blind 
 and he had lost the trail. We are weak and half 
 blind and we cannot find the old trail. I cannot 
 understand." 
 
 " Ah, ah, ah ! " A groan ran about the firelit 
 circle, intent upon the old wise man s word. 
 
 " We cannot find Wakunda [God] any more. He 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 271 
 
 is not in the valleys any more, nor on the hills. We 
 cannot talk to the big white Wakunda. What can 
 we old men say to our foolish people when they need 
 wise words? Every day they are more like badgers. 
 They eat much, drink firewater, and are very foolish. 
 But we have these white brothers and we will listen 
 to them. Their wisdom is the new wisdom ; we will 
 listen to them." 
 
 " Ah, ah! " assented the listeners. 
 
 For an hour the circle sat staring into the flame, 
 thinking of the old times. Then without a word, 
 Rainwalker and White Horse arose and passed out 
 of the lodge and the others followed. 
 
 "Well," said Meekleman to McBarty, as they 
 walked along the lonesome road toward the Agency, 
 " I have the honour to address the Hon. James 
 McBarty!" 
 
 The other did not answer for several minutes. 
 
 " Meekleman," said McBarty at length, u don t 
 you suppose I can do something for these poor 
 devils?" 
 
 " Ah, McBarty," returned Meekleman, " I am 
 afraid you will never be a politician ! " 
 
 Upon the following Monday morning when the 
 tribe gathered for the continuation of the big pay 
 ment, the news began to circulate that the great white 
 man had gone to see the Big Father at Washington 
 about the payment of the money to the minor chil 
 dren. As this news was authenticated by White 
 Horse and Rainwalker themselves, it was readily 
 
272 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 believed, and in one day four hundred brown votes 
 swung over to the Republican faith again. 
 
 On Tuesday, a week before election, there was not 
 a brown Democrat on the reserve. This state of 
 affairs continued on through the week until Friday 
 evening, at which time no word had come from the 
 Big Father. 
 
 The Democratic candidate for Congress, Judge 
 Roberts, had arrived at the Agency during the week 
 to battle in person against the impending calamity. 
 All week he and his retainers led the forlorn hope. 
 But on Friday afternoon, when the news so impa 
 tiently awaited by the Indians had not yet arrived, 
 the all but lost cause began to gain a foothold in a 
 persistent rumour that hinted that maybe the Indian 
 had been fooled after all. Maybe Meekleman didn t 
 intend to intercede for the Indians at all ; and accord 
 ingly, one by one, the brown men wondered, doubted, 
 wavered and lost hope, until by Saturday evening, 
 when the pay station closed, there had begun a rest 
 less, slow, and certain movement among the Omahas 
 toward the Democratic ranks. 
 
 When Monday morning came, twenty-four hours 
 before the opening of the polls, the political condi 
 tion of the Omahas could have been summed up in 
 one laconic conversation: 
 
 " Well, cuggie, [friend] how are you voting? " 
 
 " Dimmiticrat, guess! " 
 
 McBarty strolled leisurely about among the Oma 
 has with an enigmatical smile upon his face, seeming 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 273 
 
 to be unconscious of the crushing defeat he was, 
 apparently, about to receive. The day wore on and 
 hour by hour grew the triumph of the Judge, who 
 now already felt himself the " Gentleman from 
 Nebraska." 
 
 At five o clock in the evening the two candidates 
 were seen talking together at the door of the pay 
 station. 
 
 " Well, Mac," said the Judge, " it s looking a 
 little dark for you. I swear, a week ago I would 
 have sold my chances for a cent ! " 
 
 McBarty repeatedly looked up the dusty govern 
 ment trail leading north from the station with an 
 expression of anxiety. 
 
 " Well," he said, " allow me to congratulate the 
 Hon. John Roberts of Nebraska ! " He smiled 
 gravely as .he shook the hand of his rival. U A11 I 
 regret now," he added, " is that I drank that soup ! " 
 
 " Thanks! " replied the Judge. " It really seems 
 a shame, however, that one should go to Congress 
 at the hands of these savages, eh? " 
 
 " Yes," said McBarty, taking a long gaze up the 
 trail; " it is a shame, to be sure! " 
 
 At that moment a little farce was being enacted a 
 mile up the road. Within the covering of a wild 
 plum thicket at the side of the trail a saddled and 
 bridled horse was lariated to a stake, and a man sat 
 near by upon a rock, repeatedly tapping the horse 
 on the flanks as it galloped about in a circle. 
 
 " Lather up there! " cried the man, as- he nipped 
 
274 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the horse with the whiplash; "lather up there!" 
 And the horse dashed about the circle until its flanks 
 were dripping and its mouth was white with foam. 
 
 At length the man took out his watch, saw that 
 it was 5 .-30 o clock, and untying the lariat, he 
 mounted and put the spurs to his already jaded 
 animal, dashing at a furious pace down the dusty 
 old trail toward the Agency. 
 
 A few moments later McBarty and the Judge 
 caught sight of a furious rider dashing toward them 
 in a cloud of dust. 
 
 " Who do you suppose that can be riding so 
 fast? " said the Judge. 
 
 " Oh," said McBarty, smiling broadly, " that, 
 Judge, is merely my election coming up at the 
 gallop!" 
 
 Amid dust and yelling and a general spectacular 
 confusion the horseman dashed up to the door of the 
 pay station, threw his horse on its haunches in stop 
 ping, and cried: "A telegram from Washington for 
 the Agent ! " 
 
 In a few moments a great crowd of Indians had 
 gathered about the horse and rider. The Agent, 
 with a smile upon his face, rushed out of the station 
 and seized a bit of yellow paper that the rider held 
 in his hand. Breathlessly the crowd of Omahas 
 waited. 
 
 "Listen! " shouted a crier in the Omaha tongue, 
 standing by the Agent, who was reading the tele 
 gram. " The Big Father at Washington sends this 
 
A COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 275 
 
 word to his brown brothers : * The children s money 
 shall be paid ! " 
 
 For a moment following the shout of the crier, 
 there was a great silence. Then a roar went up from 
 the Omahas a wild, hoarse shout of joy! Judge 
 Roberts turned pale, and extending his hand to 
 McBarty, said : " Well, you have won. Allow me 
 to congratulate the Hon. James McBarty of Ne 
 braska." 
 
 And when the next morning s sun arose, the polls 
 were besieged by a throng of brown Republicans. 
 
XIX 
 
 THE LAST THUNDER SONG 
 
 IT is an ancient custom to paint tragedy in blood 
 tints. This is because men were once merely 
 animals, and have not as yet been able to live 
 down their ancestry. Yet the stroke of a dagger is 
 a caress beside the throb of hopeless days. 
 
 Life can ache; the living will tell you this. But 
 the dead make no complaint. 
 
 There is no greater tragedy than the fall of a 
 dream ! Napoleon dreamed ; so did .a savage. It is 
 the same. I know of the scene of a great tragedy. 
 Very few have recognised it as such; there was so 
 little noise along with it. It happened at the Omaha 
 Agency, which is situated on the Missouri River 
 some seventy miles above Omaha. 
 
 The summer of 1900 debilitated all thermal ad 
 jectives. It was not hot; it was Saharical! It would 
 hardly have been hyperbole to have said that the 
 Old Century lay dying of a fever. The untilled hills 
 of the reservation thrust themselves up in the August 
 sunshine like the emaciated joints of one bedridden. 
 The land lay as yellow as the skin of a fever patient, 
 except in those rare spots where the melancholy corn 
 struggled heartlessly up a hillside, making a blotch 
 like a bedsore! 
 
 276 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 277 
 
 The blood of the prairie was impoverished, and 
 the sky would give no drink with which to fill the 
 dwindling veins. When one wished to search the 
 horizon for the cloud that was not there, he did it 
 from beneath an arched hand. The small whirl 
 winds that awoke like sudden fits of madness in the 
 sultry air, rearing yellow columns of dust into the 
 sky these alone relieved the monotony of dazzle. 
 
 Every evening the clouds rolled flashing about the 
 horizon and thundered back into the night. They 
 were merely taunts, like the holding of a cool cup 
 just out of reach of a fevered mouth; and the clear 
 nights passed, bringing dewless dawns, until the 
 ground cracked like a parched lip ! 
 
 The annual Indian powwow was to be ended pre 
 maturely that year, for the sun beat uninvitingly upon 
 the flat bottom where the dances were held, and the 
 Indians found much comfort in the shade of their 
 summer tepees. But when it was noised about that, 
 upon the next day, the old medicine-man Mahowari 
 (Passing Cloud) would dance potent dances and sing 
 a thunder song with which to awaken the lazy thun 
 der spirits to their neglected duty of rain-making, 
 then the argument of the heat became feeble. 
 
 So the next morning, the bronze head of every 
 Indian tepeehold took his pony, his dogs, his squaw, 
 and his papooses of indefinite number to the pow 
 wow ground. In addition to these, the old men car 
 ried with them long memories and an implicit faith. 
 
 The young men, who had been away to Indian 
 
278 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 school, and had succeeded to some extent in stuffing 
 their brown skins with white souls, carried with them 
 curiosity and doubt, which, if properly united, beget 
 derision. 
 
 The old men went to a shrine; the young men 
 went to a show. When a shrine becomes a show, the 
 World advances a step. And that is the benevolence 
 of Natural Law ! 
 
 About the open space in which the dances were 
 held, an oval covering had been built with willow 
 boughs, beneath which the Indians lounged in sweat 
 ing groups. Slowly about the various small circles 
 went the cumbersome stone pipes. 
 
 To one listening, drowsed with the intense sun 
 shine, the buzzle and mutter and snarl of the gossip 
 ing Omahas seemed the grotesque echoes from a 
 vanished age. Between the fierce dazzle of the sun 
 and the sharply contrasting blue shade, there was 
 but a line of division; yet a thousand years lay 
 between one gazing in the sun and those dozing in 
 the shadow. It was as if God had flung down a 
 bit of the Young World s twilight into the midst of 
 the Old World s noon. Here lounged the master 
 piece of the toiling centuries a Yankee. There sat 
 the remnant of a race as primitive as Israel. Yet 
 the white man looked on with the contempt of 
 superiority. 
 
 Before ten o clock everybody had arrived and his 
 family with him. A little group, composed of the 
 Indian Agent, the Agency Physician, the Mission 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 279 
 
 Preacher, and a newspaper man, down from the city 
 for reportorial purposes, waited and chatted, sitting 
 upon a ragged patch of available shadow. 
 
 " These Omahas are an exceptional race/ the 
 preacher was saying in his ministerial tone of voice; 
 " an exceptional race! " 
 
 The newspaper man mopped his face, lit a ciga 
 rette and nodded assent with a hidden meaning 
 twinkling in his eye. 
 
 "Quite exceptional!" he said, tossing his head 
 in the direction of an unusually corpulent bunch of 
 steaming, sweating, bronze men and women. " God, 
 like some lesser master-musicians, has not confined 
 himself to grand opera, it seems ! " 
 
 He took a long pull at his cigarette, and his next 
 words came out in a cloud of smoke. 
 
 " This particular creation savours somewhat of 
 opera bouffe ! " 
 
 With severe unconcern the preacher mended the 
 broken thread of his discourse. " Quite an excep 
 tional race in many ways. The Omaha is quite as 
 honest as the white man." 
 
 " That is a truism!" The pencil-pusher drove 
 this observation between the minister s words like a 
 wedge. 
 
 " In his natural state he was much more so," 
 uninterruptedly continued the preacher; he was used 
 to continuous discourse. " I have been told by many 
 of the old men that in the olden times an Indian 
 could leave his tepee for months at a time, and on 
 
280 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 his return would find his most valuable possessions 
 untouched. I tell you, gentlemen, the Indian is like 
 a prairie flower that has been transplanted from the 
 blue sky and the summer sun and the pure winds into 
 the steaming, artificial atmosphere of the hothouse ! 
 A glass roof is not the blue sky! Man s talent is 
 not God s genius ! That is why you are looking at a 
 perverted growth. 
 
 " Look into an Indian s face and observe the ruins 
 of what was once manly dignity, indomitable energy, 
 masterful prowess ! When I look upon one of these 
 faces, I have the same thoughts as, when travelling 
 in Europe, I looked upon the ruins of Rome. 
 
 " Everywhere broken arches, fallen columns, 
 tumbled walls ! Yet through these as through a mist 
 one can discern the magnificence of the living city. 
 So in looking upon one of these faces, which are 
 merely ruins in another sense. They were once as 
 noble, as beautiful as " 
 
 In his momentary search for an eloquent simile, 
 the minister paused. 
 
 "As pumpkin pies!" added the newspaper man 
 with a chuckle; and he whipped out his notebook 
 and pencil to jot down this brilliant thought, for he 
 had conceived a very witty " story " which he would 
 pound out for the Sunday edition. 
 
 " Well," said the Agency Physician, finally sucked 
 into the whirlpool of discussion, " it seems to me that 
 there is no room for crowing on either "side. Indians 
 are pretty much like white men; livers and kidneys 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 281 
 
 and lungs, and that sort of thing; slight difference in 
 the pigment under the skin. I ve looked into the 
 machinery of both species and find just as much room 
 in one as the other for a soul! " 
 
 " And both will go upward," added the minister. 
 
 " Like different grades of tobacco," observed the 
 Indian Agent, " the smoke of each goes up in the 
 same way." 
 
 "Just so," said the reporter; "but let us cut out 
 the metaphysics. I wonder when this magical cuggie 
 is going to begin his humid evolutions. Lamentable, 
 isn t it, that, such institutions as rain prayers should 
 exist on the very threshold of the Twentieth 
 Century?" 
 
 " I think," returned the minister, " that the Twen 
 tieth Century has no intention of eliminating God! 
 This medicine-man s prayer, in my belief, is as 
 sacred as the prayer of any churchman. The differ 
 ence between Wakunda and God is merely ortho 
 graphical." 
 
 " But," insisted the cynical young man from the 
 city, " I had not been taught to think of God as of 
 one who forgets! Do you know what I would do 
 if I had no confidence in the executive ability of my 
 God?" 
 
 Taking the subsequent silence as a question, the 
 young man answered : " Why, I would take a day 
 off and whittle one out of wood! " 
 
 " A youth s way is the wind s way," quoted the 
 preacher, with a paternal air. 
 
282 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts; but what is all this noise about? " returned 
 the reporter. 
 
 A buzz of expectant voices had grown at one end 
 of the oval, and had spread contagiously throughout 
 the elliptical strip of shade. For with slow, majestic 
 step the medicine-man, Mahowari, entered the en 
 closure and walked toward the centre. The fierce 
 sun emphasised the brilliancy of the old man s gar 
 ments and glittered upon the profusion of trinkets, 
 the magic heirlooms of the medicine-man. It was 
 not the robe nor the dazzling trinkets that caught 
 the eye of one acquainted with Mahowari. It was 
 the erectness of his figure, for he had been bowed 
 with years, and many vertical suns had shone upon 
 the old man s back since his face had been turned 
 toward the ground. But now with firm step and 
 form rigidly erect he walked. 
 
 Any sympathetic eye could easily read the thoughts 
 that passed through the old man s being like an elixir 
 infusing youth. Now in his feeble years would come 
 his greatest triumph! To-day he would sing with 
 greater power than ever he had sung. Wakunda 
 would hear the cry. The rains would come ! Then 
 the white men would be stricken with belief! 
 
 Already his heart sang before his lips. In spite 
 of the hideous painting of his face, the light of 
 triumph shone there like the reflection of a great 
 fire. 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 283 
 
 Slowly he approached the circle of drummers who 
 sat in the glaring centre of the ellipse of sunlight. 
 It was all as though the First Century had awakened 
 like a ghost and stood in the very doorway of the 
 Twentieth ! 
 
 When Mahowari had approached within a yard 
 of the drums, he stopped, and raising his arms and 
 his eyes to the cloudless sky, uttered a low cry like a 
 wail of supplication. Then the drums began to 
 throb with that barbaric music as old as the world; 
 a sound like the pounding of a fever temple, with a 
 recurring snarl like the warning of a rattlesnake. 
 
 Every sound of the rejoicing and suffering prairie 
 echoes in the Indian s drum. 
 
 With a slow, majestic bending of the knees and 
 an alternate lifting of his feet, the medicine-man 
 danced in a circle about the snarling drums. Then 
 like a faint wail of winds toiling up a wooded bluff, 
 his thunder song began. 
 
 The drone and whine of the mysterious, untrans 
 latable words pierced the drowse of the day, lived 
 for a moment with the echoes of the drums among 
 the surrounding hills, and languished from a whisper 
 into silence. At intervals the old man raised his 
 face, radiant with fanatic ecstasy, to the meridian 
 glare of the sun, and the song swelled to a suppli 
 cating shout. 
 
 Faster and faster the old man moved about the 
 circle ; louder and wilder grew the song. Those who 
 
284 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 watched from the shade were absorbed in an intense 
 silence, which, with the drowse of the sultry day, 
 made every sound a paradox! The old men forgot 
 their pipes and sat motionless. 
 
 Suddenly, at one end of the covering, came the 
 sound of laughter! At first an indefinite sound like 
 the spirit of merriment entering a capricious dream 
 of sacred things; then it grew and spread until it 
 was no longer merriment, but a loud jeer of derision! 
 It startled the old men from the intenseness of their 
 watching. They looked up and were stricken with 
 awe. The young men were jeering this, the holiest 
 rite of their fathers! 
 
 Slower and slower the medicine-man danced; 
 fainter and fainter grew the song and ceased 
 abruptly. With one quick glance, Mahowari saw 
 the shattering of his hopes. He glanced at the sky; 
 but saw no swarm of black spirits to avenge such 
 sacrilege. Only the blaze of the sun, the glitter of 
 the arid zenith! 
 
 In that one moment, the temporary youth of the 
 old man died out. His shoulders drooped to their 
 wonted position. His limbs tottered. He was old 
 again. 
 
 It was the Night stricken heart-sick with the 
 laughter of the Dawn. It was the audacious Pres 
 ent jeering at the Past, tottering with years. At that 
 moment, the impudent, cruel, brilliant youth called 
 Civilisation snatched the halo from the grey hairs 
 of patriarchal Ignorance. Light flouted the rags 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 285 
 
 of Night. A clarion challenge shrilled across the 
 years. 
 
 Never before in all the myriad moons had such 
 a thing occurred. It was too great a cause to pro 
 duce an effect of grief or anger. It stupefied. The 
 old men and women sat motionless. They could not 
 understand. 
 
 With uneven step and with eyes that saw nothing, 
 Mahowari passed from among his kinsmen and tot 
 tered up the valley toward his lonesome shack and 
 tepee upon the hillside. It was far past noon when 
 the last of the older Omahas left the scene of the 
 dance. 
 
 The greater number of the white men who had 
 witnessed the last thunder dance of the Omahas 
 went homeward much pleased. The show had 
 turned out quite funny indeed. " Ha, ha, ha ! Did 
 you see how surprised the old cuggy looked? He, 
 he, he ! " Life, being necessarily selfish, argues from 
 its own standpoint. 
 
 But as the minister rode slowly toward his home 
 there was no laughter in his heart. He was saying 
 to himself: " If the whole fabric of my belief should 
 suddenly be wrenched from me, what then? " Even 
 this question was born of selfishness, but it brought 
 pity. 
 
 In the cool of the evening the minister mounted 
 his horse and rode to the home of Mahowari, which 
 was a shack in the winter and a tepee in the summer. 
 Dismounting, he threw; the bridle reins upon the 
 
286 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 ground, and raised the door flap of the tepee. Ma- 
 howari sat cross-legged upon the ground, staring 
 steadily before him with unseeing eyes. 
 
 " How ! " said the minister. 
 
 The old Indian did not answer. There was no 
 expression of grief or anger or despair upon his face. 
 He sat like a statue. Yet, the irregularity of his 
 breathing showed where, the pain lay. An Indian 
 suffers in his breast. His face is a mask. 
 
 The minister sat down in front of the silent old 
 man and, after the immemorial manner of ministers, 
 talked of a better world, of a pitying Christ, and of 
 God, the Great Father. For the first time the Indian 
 raised his face and spoke briefly in English : 
 
 "God? He dead, guess!" 
 
 Then he was silent again for some time. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes lit up with a light that was not 
 the light of age. The heart of his youth had awak 
 ened. The old memories came back and he spoke 
 fluently in his own tongue, which the minister under 
 stood. 
 
 " These times are not like the old times. The 
 young men have caught some of the wisdom of the 
 white man. Nothing is sure. It is not good. I can 
 not understand. Everything is young and new. All 
 old things are dead. Many moons ago, the wisdom 
 of Mahowari was great. I can remember how my 
 father said to me one day when I was yet young and 
 all things lay new before me : * Let my son go to a 
 high hill and dream a great dream ; and I went up 
 
THE LAST THUNDER SONG 287 
 
 in the evening and cried out to Wakunda and I slept 
 and dreamed. 
 
 " I saw a great cloud sweeping up from under the 
 horizon, and it was terrible with lightning and loud 
 thunder. Then it passed over me and rumbled down 
 the sky and disappeared. And when I awoke and told 
 my people of my dream, they rejoiced and said: 
 * Great things are in store for this youth. We shall 
 call him the Passing Cloud, and he shall be a thunder 
 man, keen and quick of thought, with the keenness 
 and quickness of the lightning; and his name shall 
 be as thunder in the ears of men. And I grew and 
 believed in these sayings and I was strong. But now 
 I can see the meaning of the dream a great light 
 and a great noise and a passing." 
 
 The old man sighed, and the light passed out of 
 his eyes. Then he looked searchingly into the face 
 of the minister and said, speaking in English : 
 
 " You white medicine-man. You pray? " 
 
 The minister nodded. 
 
 Mahowari turned his gaze to the ground and said 
 wearily : 
 
 " White God dead too, guess." 
 
XX 
 
 THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 
 
 FRENCHY called for two cards and reached 
 for a glass and the bottle. His head swam 
 dizzily. The clinking of glasses at the bar 
 smote upon his ears like gongs. He was about to 
 risk upon one " show-down " the realisation of a five- 
 years dream. He felt certain of losing; that was the 
 strange thing about it. Yet somewhere in the buzz 
 ing back of his head a compelling little devil whis 
 pered and he obeyed. 
 
 He drank three big ones straight, and for a mo 
 ment things stood still and the buzzing ceased; but 
 in the sudden silence the hissing of the little devil 
 increased to a roaring like the river s in the June 
 rise. "All on the deuces! All on the deuces! 
 Every damned cent! " That is what the little devil 
 in the back of his head was howling now. 
 
 " But if I lose it all and wanting to go back 
 home in the spring? " That was the question his 
 pounding heart hurled at the insistent little devil. 
 
 " You won once didn t you didn t you$ 
 DIDN T YOU? " howled back the little devil jeer- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Five hundred," said Frenchy quietly. His bronze 
 face had grown livid; his black eyes narrowed and 
 
 288 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 289 
 
 glittered with a steady stare. With a hand that be 
 trayed the least perceptible tremor, he pushed the 
 chips to the centre. 
 
 The next man tossed his hand into the discards. 
 The next hesitated, carefully studying the face of 
 Frenchy with a furtive lifting of the eyes under his 
 hat brim; he too laid down his hand. 
 
 " Raise you two hundred," said the next with quiet 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 " Two hundred more," said the next nonchalantly, 
 drumming a devil s tattoo with his fingers on the 
 table. 
 
 The fifth drew a long breath, grinned nervously, 
 showing his teeth like a hungry wolf and tossed his 
 hand into the discards. 
 
 It was now up to Frenchy. 
 
 " Pardon me," said he, " but did you call me? " 
 
 His face had turned a dull, ghastly green, but his 
 voice was quiet and clear. 
 
 " Raised it." 
 
 " Oh, certainly," said he, smiling. " Thinking of 
 something else trip home, I guess." His voice 
 lowered until it was almost inaudible. This absent- 
 mindedness was unusual for Frenchy. 
 
 An oppressive silence had fallen in the barroom of 
 the " Big 6." There was no longer any clinking of 
 glasses or hum of maudlin voices. The loungers 
 drew up in a hushed circle about the table and stared 
 with fascinated eyes. A " big game " was on and 
 it was up to Frenchy. Frenchy was no quitter; he 
 
2 9 o THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 was a gambler to his finger-tips. " Frenchy? He d 
 bet on which d be the last breath of his dying 
 mother! " That was the way the popular legend 
 ran, and the man lived up to it. 
 
 " Stake it all stake it all on the deuces the 
 deuces THE DEUCES! " The little devil in the 
 back of his head was shrieking now and stamping 
 red-hot heels into Frenchy s brain. 
 
 " But the trip home I ve planned five years " 
 
 urged his pounding heart. 
 
 " You won on them once didn t you? didn t 
 you? DIDN T YOU?" reiterated the little devil. 
 
 Frenchy quietly poured out another glass and 
 downed it. Then he pulled off his boots, produced 
 a bunch of bills from the bottom of each, put on his 
 boots again and looked at his hand. 
 
 " Come two thousand more ! " he whispered. 
 
 A sound of deeper breathing grew up about the fas 
 cinated circle of on-lookers. Frenchy had gone into 
 his boots they knew what that meant. Would the 
 others stay? Would they? 
 
 The place became uncanny with stillness. Noth 
 ing moved in the room. The circle of eyes stared 
 steadily upon the three who sat with expressionless 
 faces blanched with the pitiless struggle that was 
 going on. For a minute that seemed endless the 
 soundless battle continued. Psychic forces exchanged 
 invisible sword-thrusts across the table. Nerve 
 wrestled with nerve that cowered but still fought on. 
 
 The whole scene vanished for Frenchy. It seemed 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 291 
 
 to him that he was the centre of a silent hollowness; 
 only a voice, that was rather an ache felt than a sound 
 heard, kept up a pitiless jeering. 
 
 "They ll stay they ll stay," shrieked the little 
 devil; "your bluff won t work you re a dead 
 horse and they re crows crows crows I " 
 
 " They re weakening! " beat the heart of Frenchy. 
 
 "Deuces ha, ha! Deuces! And they ve both 
 got face cards deuces ho, ho! going home, eh? 
 win on deuces? ho, ho, ho deuces!" The in 
 sistent devil laughed spitefully. 
 
 " Raise you five hundred more! " 
 
 The words echoed and re-echoed in the lonesome 
 hollowness. Frenchy stared at his cards. 
 
 " Five hundred more ! " 
 
 Frenchy winced and shivered. It seemed to him 
 that a long, thin-bladed knife had reached out of 
 the silent hollow that surrounded him and stabbed 
 him twice in the breast. 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho ! " went the little devil at the back 
 of his head. " Stay with em! Put up the horses 
 everything on the deuces ho, ho, ho! " 
 
 " But I can lay down now and save the horses," 
 urged the sick heart of Frenchy. 
 
 " You won on the deuces once! " shrieked the 
 little devil; " didn t you DIDN T YOU? " 
 
 Frenchy now heard his own voice growing up out 
 of the hollow. " Taken : my five horses and outfit 
 are good for it." 
 
 Then he emerged from the soundless hollow and 
 
292 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 was aware of the circle of glittering eyes staring 
 down on the field whereon he had just staked five years 
 of his life and his last cherished dream. 
 
 " Full house aces on queens." 
 
 Frenchy heard the words and grinned exultantly. 
 The little spiteful devil was silent. 
 
 " Four kings ! " 
 
 Frenchy dropped his cards face up and reached for 
 the bottle. " Ho, ho, ho!" went the little devil, 
 dancing all over his brain; "everything lost on the 
 deuces dead horse for the crows to pick! he, he, 
 he!" 
 
 A ripple of exclamations ran about the circle of 
 loungers as they leaned forward to see the hand 
 upon which Frenchy had staked all that he owned. 
 
 " Deuces ! By the jumping four dirty deuces ! " 
 
 " Deuces f" 
 
 " Four of em." 
 
 "How s that for a bluff?" 
 
 "Fool play!" 
 
 A buzzing undertone of comment filled the room 
 and steadily grew into a chattering as of crows about 
 a spot where something has just died. Frenchy 
 seemed not to hear; he was busy filling and refilling 
 glasses. The man with the four kings quietly raked 
 in his winnings. "And the horses ?" he sug 
 gested. 
 
 Frenchy set the drained glass down with a bang, 
 and with a snake-like forward thrusting of the head 
 leered hideously at the winner. " Can t you shut up 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 293 
 
 about the horses?" He forced the words menac 
 ingly through his shut teeth. 
 
 A hush fell upon the loungers as they looked 
 upon the pinched, malignant face with the upper lip 
 lifted quiveringly and the close-set teeth showing 
 beneath. This was no longer the Frenchy of legend ; 
 that Frenchy had always been known as one who lost 
 or won large sums with the utter nervelessness of a 
 machine. This was no longer the face of Frenchy 
 the gay, careless, haughty face of him who flirted 
 with Fortune. This was a new Frenchy a terrible 
 Frenchy; with a coiled snake lurking just behind 
 each glittering eyeball. This face sent a shiver 
 through the crowd like the sight of an ugly knife 
 unsheathed in anger. 
 
 The loungers with affected carelessness began to 
 move away. With a lightning sweep of the hands 
 Frenchy drew his guns and banged them down vio 
 lently on the table before him. " Stay where you are, 
 gentlemen! " he said; " I m going to talk and I want 
 an audience. When I m done talking, I m off on the 
 long trail and the first man that moves goes with 
 
 me! 
 
 There had always been a winsome something in 
 the voice of the man. It was now commanding, irre 
 sistible. The loungers stood still and stared dumb 
 founded upon this terrible new version of an old 
 legend. 
 
 Frenchy picked up four cards from his hand and 
 held them up fanwise before his enforced listeners. 
 
294 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 "Look at em!" he shouted hoarsely. "Look at 
 em! Let em burn through your hides into your 
 souls ! Oh, you don t see anything, eh ? Don t one of 
 you dare to grin! " 
 
 One hand fumbled nervously with the guns. 
 
 " What do you see ? I say, what do you see ? Four 
 deuces? That all? I ll tell you what / see. I see 
 the red, warm hearts of two friends ! I see diamonds 
 that are cheap beside such hearts! I see a club a 
 black, brutal, treacherous club that struck down a 
 friend! And I see the devil s spades that dug his 
 grave ! That s what I see ! Look hard ! " 
 
 Frenchy seemed to exercise an uncanny influence 
 over his hearers. Not one moved all stared upon 
 the four upheld deuces. 
 
 " It s the devil s story, gentlemen," he continued 
 in a low, husky voice. " It s hung by me for three 
 bloody years it haunts me ! I ve got to tell it." 
 
 He passed his free hand over his forehead beaded 
 with sweat. Then he whispered a question to the 
 spellbound audience: 
 
 " Did any of you know the Kid Kid Smith? " 
 
 A momentary expression of infinite kindness soft 
 ened the face of Frenchy, only to give way immedi 
 ately to deep quivering lines of anguish. He con 
 tinued tremulously. 
 
 " I knew him the Kid. Had the biggest, brav 
 est heart that ever beat in the God-forsaken white 
 spaces of a map. One of that breed of fellows that 
 the world nails to its crosses the Kid was. And we 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 295 
 
 were friends ; that is, he was a friend. He gave and 
 I took, and he was happier in the giving than I in 
 the taking. That s the way it always goes: one 
 gives and one takes and God pity the man that only 
 takes ! 
 
 " Why did I bet on the deuces? Oh, the damned, 
 dirty deuces! Don t I know the game? By God, I 
 know every card like a kid knows his mother s face I 
 Didn t I know it was the last ditch for me and no 
 hope? I tell you, gentlemen, I didn t play em. The 
 Devil played em for me the black Devil of the 
 dirty deuces with the fiery feet that have been kick 
 ing me hellward for three aching years ! 
 
 "Look at the cards! Look at em! There s 
 blood on every one of em, and they stink with the 
 writhing flesh of a friend in the flames ! " 
 
 Frenchy took another drink and his manner 
 changed. The violence of his delirious outburst gave 
 way to quietness. He spoke in a low, penetrating 
 voice, and the black flame of his eyes held his hearers. 
 
 " The Kid and I had been riding across a big 
 stretch of brown grass for two days, and our tongues 
 were thick with thirst. I remember how he gave 
 me the last drops of water we had with us, cussing 
 and damning a man who got thirsty. * I can go 
 without water with the biggest camel that ever stuck 
 a hoof into the sand, said he. And I took the water; 
 I always took and the Kid was always giving. 
 
 " And along in the evening we struck a little 
 water hole and camped. How the Kid did drink 
 
296 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 when he thought I wasn t looking! Oh, he wasn t 
 such a camel for carrying water with him I It was 
 his big heart that carried the water the sweet, pure, 
 sparkling waters of friendship. 
 
 " Along about sundown a dull grey cloud grew up 
 in the west smoke! But the wind was against it, 
 blowing soft and dry from the east where the river 
 lay thirty miles away. * Think we d better ride on? 
 says the Kid. But I was tired and wanted sleep, 
 and the Kid gave in. Says he, Horses need a rest, 
 I guess ; didn t lay it onto me, you know. Giving 
 again, and I taking. 
 
 " So we lariated the horses and rolled in. Do you 
 know how a man sleeps after he s been burning dry 
 for days and fills up at last? I plunged into ten 
 thousand fathoms of soft, soft sleep deep, deep 
 down, where the cool sweet dreams bloom in worlds 
 of crystal. And everywhere in my sleep there were 
 bubbling springs and I drank and drank and drank, 
 and every gulp was sweeter than the last. 
 
 " Then the dreams changed and the many bub 
 bling water holes of sleep went dry, and fine hot dust 
 sprayed up out of the chinks where the water had 
 flowed. Then the wind of sleep grew hot and hotter. 
 It scorched my face and sent thin needles of fire 
 into my brain. And then I was standing up cough 
 ing and rubbing my eyes and the Kid was beside 
 me. What did we see? 
 
 " The wind had veered about while we slept. All 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 297 
 
 hell was climbing up the west and a booming wind 
 swept howling devils through the smoky twilight. 
 Above the unnatural dawn, long black ragged arms 
 reached out into the zenith and cloaked the stars. I 
 heard a horse snorting and tugging at his lariat. 
 
 " Good God, Kid! I wheezed; let s be off ! 
 
 The Kid turned his face upon me and smiled 
 that slow, brave smile haunts me night and day. 
 
 " 4 Your horse is gone He waved his hand 
 
 toward the miles of dark that stretched toward the 
 river. Pulled his stake just before you woke 
 up; heard him go/ The Kid s voice didn t even 
 tremble. 
 
 " Quick! I yelled; the matches! Start a back 
 fire! 
 
 * Then a big, cold hand gripped my heart; the 
 Kid had given me the last match that day; I had 
 wanted to smoke. 
 
 " All hell behind us and a horse for two ! A thirty- 
 mile heat with the mustangs of the Devil, and double 
 weight to carry! It made me sick dizzy sick. I 
 forgot everything. Oh, gentlemen, when you face 
 hell fire you ll know if your mother bore a coward. 
 
 " For a minute we stared into the west a minute 
 years long. Big pink waves of smoke rolled into 
 gulfs of purple and disappeared into holes of murk. 
 Above, the blood-red surf frothed and sparkled and 
 fell in yellow showers ! Great blankets of dense 
 gloom dropped from the sky and smothered out 
 
298 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 the hellish morning, hurling momentary night down 
 the howling wind! Then keen zigzag blades of 
 fire ripped through the belly of the night ! 
 
 " I felt the Kid s hand grasp mine. O God 1 the 
 feel of his hand ! 4 One horse for two, Frenchy, he 
 said, quiet as a man who proposes another drink at 
 the bar. One of us makes a run for his life; and 
 
 the other He motioned carelessly toward Hell. 
 
 4 One more deal of the cards, Frenchy, and the last 
 for one of us. High hand takes the horse; low hand 
 produce the deck. 
 
 "I produced the deck greasy and dog-eared; for 
 many s the social game the Kid and I had played 
 with em together. We squatted on the prairie in 
 the red twilight, and the Kid dealt. Not a tremor 
 of his perfect gambler s hands! Cool as though it 
 was a game of penny ante. 
 
 " I drew three deuces ! Deuces! Oh, the damned, 
 dirty deuces! 
 
 " How many? says the Kid pleasantly. For 
 the first time in my life I forgot to guard my hand. 
 A deep rolling thunder had grown up out of the 
 burning west. It seemed I could feel the prairies 
 tremble like a bridge under a drove of sheep. Lis 
 ten ! I gasped. It s the critters coming, said the 
 Kid ; * cattle and buffalo and elk and deer and 
 wolves the whole posse. How many cards did 
 you call for? two, wasn t it? 
 
 " He thrust two cards into my hand. One of em 
 was the deuce of hearts! O God! It wasn t only 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 299 
 
 the printed heart he gave me; it was the warm, red, 
 beating heart of a friend." 
 
 Frenchy dropped his head into his arms on the 
 table and groaned. When he lifted his face again 
 his eyes were wet. 
 
 " Four deuces and they burn holes in the dark 
 whenever I shut my eyes! And all day I see four 
 pairs of devils dancing in the sunlight till my head 
 swims! " 
 
 Frenchy dropped his head upon his chest and 
 breathed deep, uneven breaths for a space. 
 
 " The Kid had only a pair of face-cards," he con 
 tinued; " a dinky little pair of face-cards. And for 
 a second the man in me came to the surface, and I 
 threw the four hand down and stamped on it and 
 said I wouldn t leave him. And what did the Kid 
 do? Began with all the blackguard adjectives of 
 the language and ended with coward and threw 
 the bunch in my teeth. * You re the first man that 
 ever called me a quitter, Frenchy, he said. I played 
 my hand, didn t I? What would you do to a man 
 who d ask you to take your money back when you d 
 lost? If I d won, do you think I wouldn t leave 
 your carcass here to stew, you cussed fool ? 
 
 " And then something in the back of my head 
 woke up and howled : * You won it s yours a 
 chance for life fair play he d go if you lost 
 he d go ! And there was a roaring in my head and 
 the flaming night whirled round, and the bitter words 
 stung me, and my heart hardened and I went. 
 
300 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 " I found the Kid s horse saddled and bridled. I 
 cut the lariat and leaped astride. I jabbed the spike 
 spurs into the frightened brute till he roared with 
 pain. I had forgotten everything. I was a Fear 
 without a body flying through a darkness that 
 coughed smoke and spit light. And then at last 
 things quit whirling, and I felt the steady lift, lift, 
 lift of the good brute racing with all the devils down 
 a heart-breaking stretch for the river. 
 
 " I turned about in the saddle. Half the sky 
 had turned into an open furnace ! Above me a great 
 stormy ocean of blood rolled on into the twilight 
 of the east ! Blood ! a seething, billowy sea of red 
 blood, with great, red, purring cat-tongues lapping 
 it greedily! Gaudy giant flowers purple, yellow, 
 red, green bloomed for a moment in a strange gar 
 den of dreams, and nodded in the wind and fell and 
 bloomed again and fell ! The infernal beauty of the 
 thing fascinated me for a moment. Then I heard 
 the rumbling the unceasing thunder. It was louder 
 than before. I thought of the ten thousand sharp 
 hoofs gaining, gaining, with whips of fire lashing 
 them in the rear. And then I thought of the Kid 
 back there. 
 
 " My heart sickened. The hot wind that scorched 
 my face accused me; the choking air accused me. I 
 could see him lying on his face even then with the 
 mad hoofs beating him into a pulp; I could see the 
 writhing of his body as the heat increased; I could 
 smell the stench of his sizzling flesh ! 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 301 
 
 " I reeled in the saddle, yet the mad wish to live 
 lashed my hands to the pommel. But this was only 
 for a moment. The meanest worm that ever wrig 
 gled in a dunghill holds fast to his life. I forgot the 
 Kid again; I remembered only myself and that I 
 must ride to win. I pulled the horse down and held 
 him steady. Never did I throw a leg across a better 
 horse than the Kid s honest, rangy, clean-limbed 
 and deep in the chest! My heart leaped with joy 
 when I heard his long even breathing. I had a great 
 delirious love for the big-hearted brute as I felt 
 his long, even reach, the tireless rhythmic stride that 
 throws the miles behind. The drifting red sea of 
 smoke above cast the wild glare down upon the prai 
 rie and made the footing sure. I threw my guns 
 away; I stripped off my coat and gave it to the wind. 
 I knew what an extra pound might mean. 
 
 " An elk forged slowly past, his wide antlers 
 tipped with light. An antelope sprang up and 
 bounded away into the twilight ahead. A coyote 
 leaped from a shoe-string clump; he cowered and 
 whined like a whipped dog with his tail between his 
 legs, then raced away down the wind. Snorting 
 shadows began to move to right and left in the 
 further gloom and disappear in the smoke-drift. I 
 was now a part of the ragged edge of the flotsam 
 tossed up by the approaching lip of the flood. I 
 gave my horse another inch of rein and held him 
 steady. The thunder in the rear grew louder; I 
 could hear dimly the wild confusion of animal cries. 
 
302 THE LONESOME TRAIL 
 
 I was the fox hearing the yelp of the hounds and 
 racing for cover. 
 
 " Years and years of flight with the breath of an 
 oven to breathe! Years and years of rising and 
 falling, rising and falling, and my throat was tight 
 with the driving smoke. The good brute began to 
 wheeze and cough. I felt the tremor of his weary 
 ing muscles, the slight unsteadiness of the knees. 
 I prayed for the river prayed like a kid at his 
 mother s knee. I begged the brute to keep his legs; 
 I cursed him when he tottered; I called him baby 
 names and damned him in a breath. 
 
 " And after years the day began a sneaking 
 shadow of a day, shamed out by the howling western 
 dawn that met it on the run. A storm of sound was 
 all about me. Neck and neck I raced with a buffalo 
 bull that led the herd; his swollen tongue hung from 
 his foaming mouth; his breath rumbled in his throat. 
 Wheezing steers toiled up about me. Deer and elk 
 raced side by side, slowly forging into the van. Grey 
 wolves bounded past, whining and yelping. And my 
 good brute beat away bravely at the few remaining 
 miles. I felt the dry rasp of his lungs and the break 
 ing of his big, strong heart. He stumbled I gave 
 him the spur to the heel; he gave no sign of pain. 
 He was dying on his feet. 
 
 " And the cheap, dirty day crept in through the 
 smoke and I thought of the Kid, and lost heart 
 and cared no more about the race. But by and by I 
 saw the river ahead, and we plunged in a howling, 
 
THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 303 
 
 panting flood of beasts, struggling for the farther 
 shore. 
 
 " The sky and the river whirled about me. I 
 felt my horse totter up a sandbank and fall. Then 
 the day went out, and I forgot. 
 
 " O God ! I wish I d never waked up ! Why 
 didn t the buffalo and the steers beat me into the 
 sand? Why did I wake up? " 
 
 Frenchy covered his face with his hands and the 
 tears trickled through his fingers. 
 
 " But the dead horse parted the herd, and I woke 
 up and the fire was dead and the sun looked like a 
 moon through the smoke. Three aching years ago, 
 it was; and I ve dragged my carcass about and tried 
 to look like a man. But night and day the deuces 
 have followed me and tortured me. They burn 
 holes in the dark whenever I shut my eyes; four 
 pairs of devils dance before me all day in the sun 
 light till my head whirls." 
 
 Frenchy picked up the four deuces and held them 
 tremblingly before the staring crowd. 
 
 " Look at em ! Let em burn through your hides 
 into your souls! There s the blood of the Kid on 
 em. The damned dirty deuces! They ve got me 
 in the last ditch! I m done! " 
 
 Frenchy crushed the cards and dashed them to the 
 floor. He arose unsteadily to his feet, took his guns 
 and staggered out of the barroom of the " Big 6." 
 
J 
 
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