Rooted to the barren bluff the slender woman's figure stands on the
pinnacle of night, outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breeze
wafts to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With desperate hate
she bites her teeth.

Tusee beckons the stars to witness. With impassioned voice and uplifted
face she pleads:

"Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's rescue! Give me swift cunning for
a weapon this night! All-powerful Spirit, grant me my warrior-father's
heart, strong to slay a foe and mighty to save a friend!"

In the midst of the enemy's camp-ground, underneath a temporary
dance-house, are men and women in gala-day dress. It is late in the
night, but the merry warriors bend and bow their nude, painted bodies
before a bright center fire. To the lusty men's voices and the rhythmic
throbbing drum, they leap and rebound with feathered headgears waving.

Women with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a large
half-circle against the willow railing. They, too, join in the singing,
and rise to dance with their victorious warriors.

Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post,
haggard with shame and sorrow. He hangs his disheveled head.

He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet. With jeers
and smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy braves and
small boys hoot and yell in derision.

Silent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on the