cking up the cases
of burnt paper that were scattered about, examined them with eager
curiosity to discover their mysterious secret. From that time forward I
enjoyed great repute as a "fire-medicine."

The camp was filled with the low hum of cheerful voices. There were
other sounds, however, of a very different kind, for from a large lodge,
lighted up like a gigantic lantern by the blazing fire within, came a
chorus of dismal cries and wailings, long drawn out, like the howling of
wolves, and a woman, almost naked, was crouching close outside, crying
violently, and gashing her legs with a knife till they were covered with
blood. Just a year before, a young man belonging to this family had gone
out with a war party and had been slain by the enemy, and his relatives
were thus lamenting his loss. Still other sounds might be heard; loud
earnest cries often repeated from amid the gloom, at a distance beyond
the village. They proceeded from some young men who, being about to set
out in a few days on a warlike expedition, were standing at the top of a
hill, calling on the Great Spirit to aid them in their enterprise. While
I was listening, Rouleau, with a laugh on his careless face, called to
me and directed my attention to another quarter. In front of the lodge
where Weah Washtay lived another squaw was standing, angrily scolding an
old yellow dog, who lay on the ground with his nose resting between
his paws, and his eyes turned sleepily up to her face, as if he were
pretending to give respectful attention, but resolved to fall asleep as
soon as it was all over.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" said the old woman. "I have fed
you well, and taken care of you ever since you were small and blind, and
could only crawl about and squeal a little, instead of howling as you do
now. When you grew old, I said you were a good dog. You were strong and
gentle when the load was put on your back, and you never ran among the
feet of the horses when we were all traveling together over the prairie.
But you had a bad heart! Whenever a rabbit jumped out of the bushes, you
were always the first to run after him and lead away all the other dogs
behind you. You ought to have known that it was very dangerous to act
so. When you had got far out on the prairie, and no one was near to help
you, perhaps a wolf would jump out of the ravine; and then what could
you do? You would certainly have been killed, for no dog can fight well
with a load on