eyes turned to him. No mere boys dared longer to be familiar; they only
stood modestly, and paid the tribute to greatness which much staring
denotes. The white man's new rifle lay across his left arm, his painted
robe dragged on the ground, his eagle-feather waved perpendicularly
above the dried Bat's skin, the sacred red paint of war bloodied his
whole face, and a rope and a whip--symbols of his success with
horses--dangled in his right hand, while behind him followed the smart
war-pony, covered with vermilion hand-prints as thickly as the spots on
a brook-trout. The squaws ran from their fleshing, their chopping or
their other work to look at the warrior who made all the camp talk.
Wisdom mellowed by age, in the forms of certain old men, sat back and
thought disturb-edly of the future, as is the wont of those who have
little time to live. They feared for the trade with the Yellow-Eyes, for
no Chis-chis-chash could forge iron into guns and knives, which were the
arbiter between the tribes. This the Bat had brought upon them. But
still they thought more than they said; warriors as promising as this
young one did not often appear.

There was a feast at the lodge. The Bat told his exploits to the
warriors, as he strode about the night-fire in the tepee, waving his
arms, giving his war-yell until he split the air and made his listeners'
ears ring. The medicine Bat had made him strong; it had opened the way
and he had proved his faith. He sang while a man beat on a dried skin drum:

"Hi-ha-s' yehe's' yeye'!

'Hi-he-e' yehe' e' yeye'!

'Hi' niso' nihu'-Hi' yeye'!