en lathered their
horses after, but one by one gave up the chase. The dice doubtless said
dinner as against an Indian with a double mount and many will think they
gave a wise choice.

On flew the Fire Eater. Confusion had come to him. The bat on his
scalp-lock said never a word. His heart was upside down within him. His
shadow flew away before him. The great mystery of his tribe had betrayed
and bewitched him. The Yellow-Eyed medicine would find him yet.

From a high divide the fugitive stopped beside a great rock to blow
his horses and he turned his eyes on the scene of ill-fate. He saw the
Yellow-Eyes ride slowly back to their medicine-logs--he saw the ravens
lighting down on the dry watercourse and for a long time he stood--not
thinking--only gazing heavy-headed and vacant.

After a time he pulled his ponies' heads up from the grass and trotted
them away. Growing composed, with his blood stilled, thoughts came
slowly. He thanked the little brown bat when it reminded him of his
savior. A furious flood of disappointment overcame him when he thought
of his lifelong ambitions as a warrior--now only dry, white ashes.

Could he go back to the village and tell all? The council of the Red
Lodges would not listen to his voice as they had before. When he spoke
they would cast their eyes on the ground in sorrow. The Thunder Bird had
demanded a sacrifice from him when he returned. He could not bear the
thoughts of the wailing women and the screaming children and the old men
smoking in silence as he passed through the camp. He could not wash the
ashes from the faces of his people. The thoughts of it all deadened his
soul, and he turned his ponies to the west. He would not go back. He had
died with his warriors.

When the lodges lay covered with snow the Chis-chis-chash sang songs to
the absent ones of the Fire Eater's band. Through the long, cold nights
the women sat rocking and begging the gods to bring them back their
warriors. The "green-grass" came and the prophet of the Red Lodges
admitted that the medicine spoke no more of the absent band. By
"yellow-grass" hope grew cold in the village and socially they had
readjusted themselves. It had happened in times past that even after two
snows had come and gone warriors had found the path back to the camp,
but now men saw the ghost of the Fire Eater in dreams, together with his
lost warriors.

Another snow passed and still another. The Past had grown white in the
shadows of