shadows, and from under the waters; there were the machinations of his
enemies, which he was not proof against alone, and there was yet the
strong hand of the Good God, which had not been offered as yet to help
him on with the simple things of life; the women, the beasts of the
fields, the ponies and the war-bands. He could not even protect his own
shadow, which was his other and higher self.

His eyes dropped on the grass in front of his moccasins--tiny dried
blades of yellow grass, and underneath them he saw the dark traceries of
their shadows. Each had its own little shadow--its soul--its changeable
thing--its other life--just as he himself was cut blue-black beside
himself on the sandstone. There were millions of these grass-blades, and
each one shivered in the wind, maundering to itself in the chorus, which
made the prairie sigh, and all for fear of a big brown buffalo wandering
by, which would bite them from the earth and destroy them.

White Otter's people had been strong warriors in the Chis-chis-chash;
his father's shirt and leggins were black at the seams with the hair of
other tribes. He, too, had stolen ponies, but had done no better than
that thus far, while he burned to keep the wolf-totem red with honor.
Only last night, a few of his boy companions, some even younger than
himself, had gone away to the Absaroke for glory and scalps, and ponies
and women--a war-party--the one thing to which an Indian pulsed with his
last drop. He had thought to go also, but his father had discouraged
him, and yesterday presented him with charcoal ashes in his right hand,
and two juicy buffalo ribs with his left. He had taken the charcoal. His
father said it was good--that it was not well for a young man to go to
the enemy with his shadow uncovered before the Bad Gods.

Now his spirits raged within his tightened belly, and the fierce Indian