Mingled their life blood with the ruddy wave.
The combat ceased, the Thunder-Birds had won.
The Water-Demon with one favorite son
Fled from the carnage and escaped our wrath.
The vapors, thinly curling from the shore,
Faint musky odors to our nostrils bore.
The air was stilled, the silence of the dead;
The sun, just starting on his downward path,
A rosy mantle o’er the prairie shed,
Save where, like vultures, ominous and still,