With a whimper of anguish the poor mother fell back upon the floor and lay as one dead, hearing no sound. All night long her low moans went on—and the women who lifted and bore her away sang songs of grief with intent to teach her that sorrow was the lot of all women and that happiness was but a brief spot of sunlight in a world of shadow.
II
The morning broke at last, still, cold, clear, and serene. The tall trees stood motionless to the tips as though congealed into iron, and the smoke of each fire rose slow as though afraid to leave the tepee’s mouth. Here and there an old woman scurried about bearing fuel. The dogs slunk through the camp whining with cold—holding up their half-frozen feet. The horses uneasily circled, brushing close against each other for warmth. Indeed it was a morning of merciless cruelty—the plain was a measureless realm of frost.
In Oma’s tent physical agony was added to grief, or so it seemed, but in truth the mother knew only sorrow. She was too deeply schooled by the terrors of the plains not to know how surely the work of the winter demon had been done. Somewhere out there her sweet little babe was lying stiff and stark in his icy bed—somewhere on the savage and relentless upland his small limbs were at the mercy of the cold.
One by one her friends reassembled to help her bear her loss—eager to offer food, quick to rebuild her fire—but she would not listen, could not face the cheerful flame. Meat and the glow of embers were of no avail to revive her frozen, hopeless heart.
The chief himself came at last to see her—to inquire again minutely of her loss. “We will seek further,” he said. “We will find the boy. We will bring him to you. Be patient.”
Suddenly a shout arose. “A white man! a white man!” and the warning cry carried forward from lip to lip announced the news to Waumdisapa.
“A white man comes—riding a pony and bearing something in his arms. He is within the camp circle!”
Footprints in the Snow