Just at night he was seen coming out of the forest again. He spoke to but a single warrior, and only said:
"Bury him as the white men bury; open the blanket of the earth; and command the tribe to be there—to-morrow at sundown. Take them all away—I will watch. Where is the white girl?"
"She has gone home," said the Indian.
"Then I will watch alone. Take them all away—I want to be alone. It is the last night of the chief of the Umatillas. It is the last watch of the stars. My blood is cold, my heart beats slow—it will not be long!"
The chief sat all night by the body. In the morning he went to his lodge, and the tribe made the preparations for the funeral, and opened a grave in the earth.
CHAPTER XVI.
A SILENT TRIBE.
It was sunset on the bluffs and valleys of the Columbia. Through the tall, dark pines and firs the red west glowed like the lights in an oriel or mullioned window. The air was voiceless. The Columbia rolled silently in the shadows with a shimmering of crimson on its deep middle tides. The long, brown boats of the salmon-fishers sat motionless on the tide. Among the craft of the fishermen glided a long, airy canoe, with swift paddles. It contained an old Umatilla Indian, his daughter, and a young warrior. The party were going to the young chief's funeral.