n his heels, about him the few mangy dogs that had not found the
dinner-pot. One of these stirred. Half rising, he gave it a kick, just
as one of his brothers might have done. Then he squatted again, and
through the ragged strands of his bang, his black eyes sparkled eagerly.
For, of late, every warrior's lodge had seen secret flesh-painting;
under every warrior's blanket were hidden gaudy tracings of vermilion,
scarlet, orange, and blue; and was he not painted, too!

He had sought in an ash-pile for coals; found a beef bone and snapped it
for marrow; next, taken from his worn pouch a lump of red earth. He had
rubbed the coals to powder in a square of rag, after which he had mixed
the powder and the grease to make a paste. Then, he had pulled off his
mourning blanket and his squaw's shirt, and bared his body to the waist.

Vermilion, orange, scarlet, and blue--these colours had been laid in
stripes, circles, and figures upon the braves. They were colours that
he, an outcast, might not use. But there was one poor privilege in
flesh-painting that even he could claim. Kneeling again in clout and
squaw's skirt, he had smeared the black and red in rude signs upon his
chest. The braves, his brothers, had painted themselves for battle. But
he, the pariah, had painted himself in the colours of death.

Suddenly he forsook the roof for the shadow of the log wall. There he
waited. Two warriors had left the lodge of Brown Mink and were crossing
the pen. He knew them. The shorter was Canada John, the eldest of the
four condemned. The other was a Sioux who had been captured that day and
cast into prison at sunset. He was a giant in stature, wore full war
paint and dress, and a belt that testified his valour. For it hung thick
with scalps, some jetty and coarse,--taken from heads of his own
kind,--some brown or fair, with the softness that belongs to the hair
of white women and little children. The two were talking low together.
Presently, as they strolled near, the outcast heard the deep murmur of
their voices; then their words. He leaned toward them, all ears.

"How many sleeps before the dove calls?" It was the bass of the
stranger.

"Perhaps only another," answered Canada John.

There was a great laugh, like the cry of a full-fed loon. "Surely Big Ox
stays not long! But how can my friends be sure that The Double-Tongue
will have horses ready?"

"He claims a reward."

"Ho! Ho! and what?"

Canada John halted close to Squaw