"When owl sleep; when thunder don't beat drum; when wind don't make
noise like big whistle; when trees stand straight up and don't bend;
when everything quick is in hole; when Great Spirit he make sign and
everybody him sleep--then I hear my papa tell story about my mamma's
brother; how he get 'um fingers worn off on end. My mamma's brother him
great buck; call him 'buck' when him brave, before him made Chief.

"My mamma's brother him know white man scout, great friend my mamma's
brother. Him talk Indian talk, just like Sioux. My mamma's brother
friend him work for army; him watch when Indian go on war path. Him good
man. Him like Indian. Him know Indian no bad.

"My mamma's brother friend him say to my mamma's brother him like to
bring his friend, White Chief, to Indian war dance. Him say White Chief
he no tell what he see. My mamma's brother he say no: White Chief, with
much ribbon on clothes, have crooked tongue. My mamma's brother friend
he say White Chief he no tell; give word before Great Spirit. My mamma's
brother then he say come."

As the clipped sentences fell in soft gutturals from Injun's lips his
face remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which gazed back into
the dim, smoke-laden tepee and into the face of his father, a great
story-teller of a race of great story-tellers; a survivor of the age-old
days when the deeds and legends of all men were made history by the
voice alone. And the men, their wager forgotten, and Whitey, too, leaned
forward and saw the tepee and saw Injun's uncle talking to the scout,
whom he trusted, and who trusted the White Chief.

In what followed, Injun left some of the details to the imagination of
his hearers, or perhaps thought that they knew of them. Of how, before