The man who had used the knife scalped his enemy, and slowly,
hidden by the grass, crept down the hill that he had just ascended,
and when he reached the cover of a low place Mika´pi rose to his
feet and crept away. He had another Snake scalp tied to his belt.
His heart was glad, but he was not satisfied.

Several nights had passed since the signs warned him to turn back,
but notwithstanding the warnings, he had succeeded. Perhaps his
success had made him too confident. He longed for more of it. "One
more scalp I shall take," he said, "and then I will return to the
people."

He climbed far up the mountainside and hid among the pines and
slept, but when day came he awoke and crept out to a point where he
could see the camp. He saw the smoke rising as the women kindled
their morning fires; he saw the people going about through the camp,
and then presently he saw many people rush up on the hill where he
had left the dead enemy. He could not hear their angry cries, nor
their mournful wailings, but he knew how badly they felt, and he
sung a song, for he was happy.

Once more the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and as
darkness grew Mika´pi came down from where he had been hiding and
carefully approached the camp. Now was a time of danger. Now
watchers might be hidden anywhere, looking for the approach of
enemies, ready to raise a cry to warn the camp. Each bush or clump
of rye grass or willow thicket might hide an enemy. Very slowly,
looking and listening, Mika´pi crept around the outskirts of the
camp. He made no noise, he did not show himself. Presently he heard