that day; only an old dog lay silent and watchful at his master's
feet.

Finally he looked up and said with a pleasant smile:

"True, friend; it is the old custom to retrace one's trail
before leaving it forever! I know that I am at the door of the
spirit home.

"I was born near the forks of the Cheyenne River, about
seventy years ago. My father was not a chief; my grandfather was
not a chief, but a good hunter and a feast-maker. On my mother's
side I had some noted ancestors, but they left me no chieftainship.
I had to work for my reputation.

"When I was a boy, I loved to fight," he continued. "In all
our boyish games I had the name of being hard to handle, and I took
much pride in the fact.

"I was about ten years old when we encountered a band of
Cheyennes. They were on friendly terms with us, but we boys
always indulged in sham fights on such occasions, and this time I
got in an honest fight with a Cheyenne boy older than I. I got the
best of the boy, but he hit me hard in the face several times, and
my face was all spattered with blood and streaked where the paint
had been washed away. The Sioux boys whooped and yelled:

"'His enemy is down, and his face is spattered as if with
rain! Rain-in-the-Face! His name shall be Rain-in-the-Face!'