d made his eyes gleam vacantly like the great cats.

Slowly the dismayed band withdrew to the washout--casting backward
glances at the walls which had beaten down their ambitions and would
paint the tribes with ashes and blood-sacrifices for the lost. When
there, they sat about dejectedly, finding no impulse to do more.

From out of the west, in response to their blue despondency, the clouds
blew over the plains--the thunder rumbled--the rain came splashing
and beating and then fell in blinding sheets. The Fire Eater arose
and standing on the edge of the bank raised his arms in thanks to the
Thunder Bird for his interposition in their behalf, saying: "Brothers,
the Thunder Bird has come to his poor warriors to drive our enemies
back as was promised to the prophet. He will put out the fires of the
Yellow-Eyes, behind their medicine-logs. We are not afraid--our medicine
is strong."

The rain poured for a time but abated gradually as the crashing Thunder
Bird hurried away to the rising sun, and with a final dash it separated
into drops, letting the sunlight through the departing drizzle. The
warriors began drying their robes and their weapons--preoccupied with
the worries so much dampness had wrought for their powder and bow
strings. Suddenly one of them raised his head, deerlike, to listen. As
wild things they all responded, and the group of men was statuesque
as it listened to the beat of horses' hoofs. As a flock of blackbirds
leaves a bush--with one motion--the statuary dissolved into a
kaleidoscopic twinkle of movement as the warriors grabbed and ran and
gathered. They sought their ponies' lariats, but before they could mount
a hundred mounted Yellow-Eyes swept down upon them, circling away as
the Indians sowed their shots among them. But they were surrounded. The
Thunder Bird had lied to the Chis-chis-chash--he had chosen to sacrifice
the Fire Eater and the twenty Red-Lodge braves. There was now no thought
of arresting the blow--there was but to die as their people always did
in war. The keepers of the Red Lodge counting robes might cross the red
pipes out with black, but they should not wash them out entirely.

[Illustration: 12 The Fire Eater raised his arms to the Thunder Bird]

The beaver-men--the traders--the creoles and the half-breeds slid from
their horses and showered their bullets over the washout, throwing
clouds of wet dirt over the braves crowding under its banks. The
frightened Indian ponies swarmed