es in a herd with others.
It was too cold for him to dare to ride a horse. The crying boy shivered
under the robe. The burden-bearer mumbled the troubled thoughts of his
mind: "My mystery from the Good Gods is gone; they have taken it; they
gave it to the fire. I am afraid. The bad spirits of the wind will get
under my robe. They will enter the body of my boy. Oh! little brown bat,
come sit on my hand! Do not let them take the boy!"

Hour after hour he plodded along in the snow. His body was warmed by his
exertions and the boy felt cold against his flesh. He noted this, and
with the passing moments the little frame grew more rigid and more cold
until it was as a stone image in the Fire Eater's arms. Stopping with
his back to the wind, he undid the robe and fingered his burden. He knew
that the shadow had gone;--knew that the bad spirits had taken it away.
"Oh! Bad Gods, oh! Evil Spirits of the night, come take my shadow. You
have stolen my boy; you have put out my lodge fire; put out the fire
of my body! Take vengeance on me! I am deserted by the Good Gods! I am
ready to go! I am waiting!"

Thus stood in the bleak night this victim of his lost medicine; the
fierce and cruel mysteries of the wind tugged at his robe and flapped
his long hair about his head. Indians coming by pushed and pulled him
along. Two young men made it a duty to aid the despairing chief. They
dragged him until they reached a canyon where fires had been lighted,
around which were gathered the fugitives. The people who had led him had
supposed that his mind was wandering under suffering or wounds. As he
sank by the side of the blaze he dropped the robe and laid the stiffened
body of his frozen boy across his knees. The others peered for a time
with frightened glances at the dead body, and then with cries of "Dead!
dead!" ran away, going deeper down the canon. The Fire Eater sat alone,
waiting for the evil spirits which lurked out among the pine trees
to come and take him. He wanted to go to the spirit-land where the
Cheyennes of his home and youth were at peace in warm valleys, talking
and eating.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Way of an Indian, by Frederic Remington

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