imes, but it had never taken his all before. It had left him
nothing but his boy and a nearly empty gun. It had placed him between
the fire of the soldiers' rifles and the cruel mountain winds which
would pinch his heart out.

With his boy at his breast he flew along the rim-rock like a crow,
hunting for shelter from bullets and wind. He longed to expend his
remaining cartridges where each would put out a white man's fire.
Meanwhile, recovering from their surprise, the Indians had gathered
thickly on the heights and fought stiffly back. Being unable to follow
them, the pony-soldiers drew back, but as they retreated they left the
village blazing, which the Chis-chis-chash could not prevent. Their
rifles had only handed them over to the hungry winter.

The Fire Eater sat muffled on a ledge, firing from time to time, and
anxiously scanning his shots. The cold made him shake and he could not
hold his rifle true. His old, thin blood crept slowly through his veins,
and the child cried piteously. His fires were burning low; even the
stimulus of hate no longer stirred him as he looked down on the
white men who had burned his all and shot his wife and were even then
spattering his den in the rocks with lead. He gave up, overpowered by
the situation. With infinite difficulty he gathered himself erect on
his stiffened joints and took again his burden in his trembling arms.
Standing thus on the wind-swept height, with the bullets spotting the
rocks around him, he extended his right hand and besought the black,
eddying smoke to give him back his bat-skin; he begged the spirits of
the air to bring it to him. He shouted his harsh pathos at a wild and
lonely wind, but there was no response.

Then off through the withering cold and powdery snow moved the black
figure of despair tottering slowly away from the sound of rifles which
grew fainter at each step. He chattered and mumbled, half to himself,
half to the unseen influences of nature, while the child moaned weakly
under his clutched robe. When he could but barely hear the noises of the
fight, he made his way down into the canon where he shortly came upon
a group of his tribesmen who had killed a pony and were roasting pieces
over a log fire. They were mostly women and children, or old, old men
like himself. More to note than their drawn and leathery faces was the
speechless terror brooding over all. Their minds had not digested
their sudden fate. If the young warriors broke before