and
Unk-ta-he wanted him, for they said he would make a wonderful medicine
man. Some of the sons of Unk-ta-he fought against the sons of the
Thunder, and the young thunder-birds were killed, and then Unk-ta-he
took the spirit of my father, to teach him many mysterious things.

"When my father had lived a long time with Unk-ta-he in the waters under
the earth, he took the form of a Dahcotah again, and lived in this
village. He taught me all that I know, and when I go to the land of
spirits, my son must dance alone all night, and he will learn from me
the secret of the medicine of our clan."

All listened attentively to the old man, for not an Indian there but
believed that he could by a spell cause their instant death; and many
wonderful miracles had the "Elk" wrought in his day.

In the corner of the wigwam sat the Bound Spirit, whose vacant look told
the sad tale of her want of reason. Generally she sat quiet, but if the
cry of an infant fell upon her ear, she would start, and her shriek
could be heard throughout the village.

The Bound Spirit was a Sisseton. In the depth of winter, she had left
her village to seek her friends in some of the neighboring bands. She
was a widow, and there was no one to provide her food.

Accompanied by several other Indians, she left her home, which was made
wretched by her desolate condition--that home where she had been very
happy while her husband lived. It had since been the scene of her want
and misery.

The small portion of food they had taken for their journey was
exhausted. Rejoiced would they have been to have had the bark of trees
for food; but they were on the open prairie. There was nothing to
satisfy the wretched cravings of hunger, and her child--the very child
that clung to her bosom--was killed by the unhappy mother, and its
tender limbs supplied to her the means of life.

She reached the place of destination, but it was through instinct, for
forgetting and forgotten by all was the wretched maniac who entered her
native village.

The Indians feared her; they longed to kill her, but were afraid to do
so. They said she had no heart.

Sometimes she would go in the morning to the shore, and there, with only
her head out of water, would she lie all day.

Now, she has been weeping over the infant who sleeps by her. She is
perfectly harmless, and the wife of the war chief kindly gives her food
and shelter whenever she wishes it.

But it is not often she eats--only