eders were, A'tim thought. At least a dozen
times each Indian returned to the flesh-pots, the Dog-Wolf felt
sure. "They are like Wolves," he snarled; "well I know them. For
days and days they will live on nothing, even as a Wolf; then,
when the Kill is on, they will gorge until they are stupid.
E-u-h-ha! but when they become stupid from this feeding surely I
will also feast; wait, hunger-pain, wait just a little."

A cold moon came up over the fog-lined prairie and looked down
wonderingly at the fierce barbecue. Sometimes the silent prairie,
silent as the Catacombs, would be startled by the exultant cry of
a blood-drunken feaster. It was a fierce joy the Kill had brought
to these Pagans.

Half a thousand robes Eagle Shoe had tallied. "Waugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
he had grunted in sheer joy when the little willow wands which
marked the score had been counted before him. Surely they would
revel in things dear to the heart of an Indian when the robes
were carted to the Hudson Bay Store. The meat was feeling all
right in its way when the stomach was lean, but at the Fort, at
the time of giving up the robes--Waugh! God of the fallen
Indians! how they would revel in the fierce fire-water, the
glorious fire-water! Even the Squaws, useful at the skinning,
would also drink, and reel, and become lower than the animals
they had slain to bring about all this saturnalia. Why had his
forefathers fought against the Palefaces? Was not all this
civilized evil a good thing, after all?

A cloud drifted a frown over the face of the cold moon, and A'tim
skulked closer and closer--almost to the very edge of the
slaughter-pit. The Indian Pack-Dogs snarled at his presence, and
yapped crabbedly. Other gray shadows, less venturesome than the
Dog-Wolf, flitted restlessly back and forth in the dim mist of
the silent plain.

A'tim sneered to himself maliciously. "To-day is the Kill of the
Buffalo," he muttered; "to-morrow you, my Gray Brothers, will
give up your lives because of the Death Powder. There will be
meat enough for the poisoning; feast to-night, for to-morrow you
die, and your pelts will go with those of the Dead Grass-Eaters.
If you had not outcasted me, I, who know of this thing, would
save you; but to-morrow I shall be far away and care not."

Would the Indians never gorge themselves to sleep? Eagle Shoe's
voice was hushed; one by one the feasters stretched themselves
upon the silent grass, and slumbered with a heaviness of full
conten