s
time not so many come--next time not any ever come--maybe so!"

"Maybe so!" echoed Tahn-te, but shook his head in sadness. Like the
men of his own village, these men had the hopefulness of children that
all would be made well.

"If their god is so strong a god--and they come with good gifts, is it
not well to make treaty and have them as brothers?" asked the old
governor. "With the thunder and the lightning given to them instead
of arrows, they could do good warrior work for those who were precious
to them."

"That is so," agreed Tahn-te--"but the men of dark skins will never be
precious to the white men of the beards--except they make slaves who
obey,--who carry the water, and bring wood for the fire."

"Men carry the water?"

"They are not men when they become slaves--they are not people any
more!"

"We did not hear that," said the governor. "Do these men tell it that
way?"

"No--not in that way. But talking leaves of their god tells them that
dark men of other gods than theirs must be ever as slaves to the white
men of iron and all of their kind. It has been like that always. The
talking leaves tell them how to make slaves--and how to make war on
all people who refuse to say that their god must be the only god."

"And that white god sends talking leaves of a spirit tree?"

"It is so," said Tahn-te:--"Many leaves! The spirit of that tree was
once a strong spirit, but the white people caught it with magic and
shut it in a book, and the spirit grows weak in the book--the heart of
the Most Mysterious cannot be shut in a thing like that. They have
magic, but the heart does not sing to that magic--only the eyes see
it."

"Yet these strangers are wise," ventured one of the council, "such
leaves might be good to instruct quickly the youth of the clans."

"It is so," agreed Tahn-te again. "But when the gods are caught in the
leaves of a book, is when they no longer speak in silence to the
hearts of men. On a day when we walk no more on the Earth Trail, the
names of our gods may also be written on the leaves of a spirit tree
that is dead. Think of this and warn your sons to think of this! The
youths of Povi-whah and of Kah-po hearken with joy to the trumpets of
the men of iron, but the music for the desert gods is the music of the
flute--let it not be silenced by trumpets of brass made by white men
who conquer!"

Some of the men of the council looked at each other, and wondered in
their hearts if the youth o