ratch of a
match.

It did not light, and there was a teasing laugh. The outcast sat up like
a startled gopher, one hand to his breast, one out before him. Again, a
scratch. A tiny flame flickered. Too amazed for fear, Charley put his
eye to the slit.

Both hands came up to drive back a cry. At the rear of the wickie-up,
the skins were pulled aside to reveal the stockade wall. Of this two
logs showed--hollowed out so completely at the base that they were mere
shells!

Before these logs, all kneeling, were the hag, Standing Buffalo and
Brown Mink. The chief held the match; the old woman, a knife; the girl
was empty-handed. But she was not ill--not wasted--not dying! She was
full-figured. Her face was round. Her cheeks and lips were as bright as
the dab of paint at the part in her hair--as crimson with health as a
gorgeous cactus-flower!

The match went out. Squaw Charley dropped back to the wall's shadow. His
heart was pounding madly with a twofold joy: The hacked logs assured
freedom for his brothers, for himself, fighting and rank. And she was
still to be won!

"The work is over," said a man's voice.

"And when comes the call of a dove?" asked a maid's.

"Perhaps when the moon dies."

"Who can tell?" It was the growl of the crone. "The Double-Tongue has
run to hole like a fox."

Once more there was silence. A sentry, as he neared, was humming an
unconscious warning. When he was gone again, there was more talk. But it
was low-toned, and Charley could not hear. He did not wait longer.
Slipping away a rod, he dropped on all fours.

When Standing Buffalo emerged and looked to see if he might safely
return, he observed that in the enclosure nothing moved but a dog, which
was going toward the shingle roof. So, composedly drawing his sheet of
cow's hide about him, he strode to his lodge.

* * * * *

Until daybreak, two Indians did not join the others in their rest. The
one sat harking for the call of a mourning-dove. The other sat
cross-legged beside the smudge; and as a splinter new and then revived
the fire, he wafted prayers of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit on its
upward-rising smoke.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE EVE OF OTHER THINGS

The wide valley was brown, with green splots and tracings for slough and
stream. The distant ranges were grey. The sky showed the misty blue of
the dog-days. Far off to the north and west, black streaks edged the
horizon, where smoke rolled