to him night and day--when he was amid his people laughing and
feasting, or when he was alone in the forest chanting his strange
songs, beating his hollow drum, or shaking his wooden witch-rattle
to gain more power to cure the sick and the dying of his tribe. For
years this dream followed him. He grew to be an old, old man, yet
always he could hear voices, strong and loud, as when they first
spoke to him in his youth, and they would say: 'Between the two
narrow strips of salt water the white men will camp, many hundreds
of them, many thousands of them. The Indians will learn their ways,
will live as they do, will become as they are. There will be no
more great war-dances, no more fights with other powerful tribes;
it will be as if the Indians had lost all bravery, all courage, all
confidence.' He hated the voices, he hated the dream; but all his
power, all his big medicine, could not drive them away. He was the
strongest man on all the North Pacific Coast. He was mighty and
very tall, and his muscles were as those of Leloo, the timber-wolf,
when he is strongest to kill his prey. He could go for many days
without food; he could fight the largest mountain-lion; he could
overthrow the fiercest grizzly bear; he could paddle against the
wildest winds and ride the highest waves. He could meet his enemies
and kill whole tribes single-handed. His strength, his courage, his
power, his bravery, were those of a giant. He knew no fear; nothing
in the sea, or in the forest, nothing in the earth or the sky, could
conquer him. He was fearless, fearless. Only this haunting dream
of the coming white man's camp he could not drive away; it was the
only thing in life he had tried to kill and failed. It drove him
from the feasting, drove him from the pleasant lodges, the fires,
the dancing, the story-telling of his people in their camp by the
water's edge, where the salmon thronged and the deer came down to
drink of the mountain-streams. He left the Indian village, chanting