Yet—what had the new God done for him? Was his work lighter? No! Was the food not the cast-off's still, fouled by the touch and the tongues of others and by the dirt of the pen? Yes. If the new God was good, why had He not saved the evangelist?
The soul of Squaw Charley tottered.
Hark!
Overhead, a high-sailing crane bugled. But to the outcast, the lonely night-cry seemed supernatural, a hail from one of the departed!
He uncovered his eyes and looked up. Above him stretched the pale, shining ribbon of the Milky Way.
Again the crane sounded its rousing, guttural cry. He shook himself, as if to free his body from a chain.
Once more he took out flint and steel and lit the bit of grapevine. Then, he sank to the prairie, where he crossed his legs like a brave. Now, with deep breath, he drew upon the stem. His nostrils filled, he tipped back his head; and from them, upward to the path, sent wreath upon wreath of adoring smoke.