had been a spiral spring released from
pressure, the Fire Eater regained his height. The little boy sat briskly
down in the ashes, adding his voice to the confusion, which now reigned
in the great camp in a most disproportionate way. The old chief sprang
to his doorway in time to see a mounted rider cut by, shrieking, "The
pony-soldiers are coming over the hills!" and disappear among the
tepees.

With intense fingers the nerved warrior readjusted his life treasure,
the bat-skin, to his scalp-lock, then opening his war-bags, which no
other person ever touched on pain of death, he quickly daubed the war
paint on his face. These two important things having been done, he
filled his ammunition bag with a double handful of cartridges, tied his
chief's war-bonnet under his chin, and grasping his rifle, war-ax and
whip, he slid out of the tepee. An excited squaw hastily brought
his best war-pony with its tail tied up, as it always was in these
troublesome times. The Fire Eater slapped his hand violently on its
quarter, and when he raised it there was the red imprint of the hand of
war. The frightened animal threw back its head and backed away, but with
a bound like a panther the savage was across its back, a thing which in
tranquil times the old man was not able to do.

This was the first time in years that the warrior had had a chance to
wear his war-bonnet in battle. Rapidly adjusting his equipment as he sat
his plunging horse, he brought his quirt down with a full arm swing and
was away. By his side many sturdy war-ponies spanked along. At the ford
of the river they made the water foam, and the far side muddy, with
their dripping. They were grotesque demons, streaked and daubed, on
their many-colored ponies. Rifles clashed, pony-whips cracked, horses
snorted and blew, while the riders emitted the wild yelps which they had
learned from the wolves. Back from the hills came their scouts sailing
like hawks, scarcely seeming to touch the earth as they flew along.
"The pony-soldiers are coming--they are over the hill!" they cried.
The crowded warriors circled out and rode more slowly as their chiefs
marshaled them. Many young Red Lodge braves found the Fire Eater's
place, boys who had never seen the old man in war, but who had listened
in many winter lodges where his deeds were "smoked." As they looked
at him now they felt the insistency of his presence--felt the nervous
ferocity of the wild man--it made them eager and reckless,