each other, until the island ran with blood redder than that sunset,
and the sea-water about it was stained flame color--it was then,
my people say, that the scarlet fire-flower was first seen growing
along this coast."

"It is a beautiful color--the fire-flower," I said.

"It should be fine color, for it was born and grew from the hearts
of fine tribes-people--very fine people," he emphasized.

We crossed to the eastern rail of the bridge, and stood watching the
deep shadows that gathered slowly and silently about the island; I
have seldom looked upon anything more peaceful.

The chief sighed. "We have no such men now, no fighters like those
men, no hearts, no courage like theirs. But I tell you the story;
you understand it then. Now all peace; to-night all good tillicums;
even dead man's spirit does not fight now, but long time after it
happen those spirits fought."

"And the legend?" I ventured.

"Oh! yes," he replied, as if suddenly returning to the present from
out a far country in the realm of time. "Indian people, they call
it the 'Legend of the Island of Dead Men.'

"There was war everywhere. Fierce tribes from the northern coast,
savage tribes from the south, all met here and battled and raided,
burned and captured, tortured and killed their enemies. The forests
smoked with camp-fires, the Narrows were choked with war-canoes, and