The chief, by this time, was fully restored to health.
"In a few days," he said wistfully, "I return to the reserve. The agent has sent for me."
"You should never have left it," Hector reproved him. "You know the law."
"Did the law save me and mine?" the old chief countered. "It could not have done for me what you have done."
Hector smiled quietly. He had given up trying to disillusion the Indian.
"And that," Sleeping Thunder resumed, "brings me to what I wish to say. Have patience. I am old and it is not easy for me to put my thoughts into words."
He gazed steadily out towards the West. The sun was sinking in as perfect a spring sky as Hector had ever seen. The wind rustled the long grass. A bird piped drowsily. A tethered horse stamped. All else was silence.
The figure of Moon, busy round the cooking fire, stood black against the sunset.
"My son, you may remember, long ago, when we were at the Sun Dance camp, I told you that the white man's ways are not our ways and one should not adopt the habits of the other."
"I remember," Hector answered.