came out from the temple of the Corn. As Waits-by-the-Fire went up with
the Seven, the people closed in solidly behind them. The Cacique looked
at the carriers on their backs and frowned.

"'Why do you come to the god-house with baskets, like laborers of the
fields?' he demanded.

"'For the price of our labor, O Cacique,' said the Shaman. 'The gods are
not so poor that they accept labor for nothing.'

"'Now, it is come into my heart,' said the Cacique sourly, 'that the
gods are not always pleased to be served by strangers. There are signs
that this is so.'

"'It may be,' said Waits-by-the-Fire, 'that the gods are not pleased.
They have long memories.' She looked at him very straight and somebody
in the crowd snickered."

"But wasn't it awfully risky to keep making him mad like that?" asked
Dorcas. "They could have just done anything to her!"

"She was a wise woman; she knew what she had to do. The Cacique _was_
angry. He began making a long speech at her, about how the smut had come
in the corn and the bean crop was a failure,--but that was because there
had not been water enough,--and how there had been sickness. And when
Waits-by-the-Fire asked him if it were only in that year they had
misfortune, the people thought she was trying to prove that she hadn't
had anything to do with it. She kept reminding them of things that had
happened the year before, and the year before. The Cacique kept growing
more and more angry, admitting everything she said, until it showed