He seemed not to have moved. His eyes burned with the steady glare of
the great cats until, allowing his robe to fall away, he brought out his
firebag and lighted his pipe. Standing up, he blew a mouthful of smoke
to each of the four corners of the world; then lowered his head in
silence for a long while. He had recovered himself now. The Bat no
longer shrieked, but counciled coldly for revenge. His shadow beside
him was blood-red as he gazed at it.

Presently he mounted and rode toward camp; his eyes danced the devil's
dance as they wandered over the battlements of Fort Laramie. He wanted a
river of blood--he wanted to break the bones of the whites with stone
hatchets--he wanted to torture with fire. He would have the girl now at
any cost.

After eating at Big Hair's lodge, he wandered over to the Fort. He said
not a word to anyone as he passed. An old chief came out of the gate,
turned the corner, saw the Bat, and said: "The white chief says you
tried to steal his squaw. His heart is cold toward our people. He will
no longer trade with us. What have you done?"

The Bat's set eyes gazed at the old man, and he made no reply, but stood
leaning against the walls while the chief passed on.

No one noticed him, and he did not move for hours. He was under that
part of the wall behind which was the room of the woman, and not
unexpectedly he heard a voice from above in the strange language which
he did not understand. Looking up, he saw that she was on the roof. He
motioned her to come down to him, at the same time taking his rifle from
under his robe.