t Spirit whispered to me to go on, and an unrest rose
within me, and I could not stay.

"So the years went by, and I wandered farther and farther to the west,
across rivers and deserts, till I reached this tribe; and they said
that farther on, toward the land of the Willamettes, a great river
flowed through the mountains, and across it was a bridge of stone
built by the gods when the world was young. Then I knew that it was
the bridge of my vision, and the unrest came back and I arose to go.
But the tribe kept me, half as guest and half as prisoner, and would
not let me depart; until last night the runner came summoning them to
the council. Now they go, taking me with them. I shall see the land of
the bridge and perform the work the Great Spirit has given me to do."

The old grand enthusiasm shone in his look as he closed. The Shoshone
regarded him with grave attention.

"What became of the book that told of God?" he asked earnestly.

"A chief took it from me and burned it; but its words were written on
my heart, and they could not be destroyed."

They rode on for a time in silence. The way was rugged, the country a
succession of canyons and ridges covered with green and waving grass
but bare of trees. Behind them, the Blue Mountains were receding in
the distance. To the west, Mt. Hood, the great white "Witch Mountain"
of the Indians, towered over the prairie, streaking the sky with a
long floating wreath of volcanic smoke. Before them, as they journeyed
northward toward the Columbia, stretched out the endless prairie. Now
they descended into a deep ravine, now they toiled up a steep
hillside. The country literally rolled, undulating in immense ridges
around and over which the long file of squaws and warriors, herds and
pack-horses, wound like a serpent. From the bands ahead came shouts
and outcries,--the sounds of rude merriment; and above all the
long-drawn intonation so familiar to those who have been much with
Indian horsemen,--the endlessly repeated "ho-ha, ho-ha, ho-ha," a kind
of crude riding-song.

After a while Cecil said, "I have told you the story of my life, will
you not tell me the story of yours?"

"Yes," said the renegade, after a moment's thought; "you have shown me
your heart as if you were my brother. Now I will show you mine.

"I was a Shoshone warrior.[5] There was a girl in our village whom I
had loved from childhood. We played together; we talked of how, when I
became a man and a warrior,