Rain Walker stood in the centre of the village and held his face to the sky.
“What are you doing?” said one who walked there.
“I?” and there was twilight in Rain Walker’s eyes as he looked upon the questioner. “I shot an arrow into the air. It did not come back, so I am always looking for it.”
And the questioner smiled and went on walking; for no arrow rises that does not fall. A child knows that.
And the people said: “It is all because Mad Buffalo, the Ponca, took his squaw. He took her, and she went. It was after the summer’s feasting and talking together that she went. Rain Walker is not forgetting.”
And Rain Walker sat much alone; he sat much alone making strange songs not pleasant to hear. And as he made songs he made weapons. He fashioned him a man-de-hi, which is a long spear, tipped with sharp flint; and he sang. He wrought a za-zi-man-di, which is a great bow; and sang all the time. They were hate songs that he sang; they snarled.
He shaped many arrows; he headed them with sharp flints and tipped them with the feathers of the hawk; and all the time he sang. He made a we-ak-ga-di, which is an ugly club. He sang to himself and to the weapons that he made. To the harsh, snarling airs he wrought the weapons. The songs went into them, and they looked like things that might hate much.
And one drew near who was walking. “Why do you make war things?” said he.
“I?” and Rain Walker threw himself upon his stomach, writhing toward the questioner like a big snake. “I am a rattlesnake,” he said, “hiss-ss-ss-s! go away! I sting!”
And the man went, for it is not good to see a man act like a snake.