She did not answer; the man sighed.
“Do not be afraid,” he said. And she spoke.
“I dreamed that I saw my zhinga zhinga that I am carrying. And it was Rain Walker’s. It had his face, and it looked upon me with hate. It pushed me away when I offered my breast. It would take no milk from me. And it seemed that its look pierced me like a barbed arrow. Thus I awoke, and cried out.”
The woman was sobbing, and a tremor ran through the man. She felt it as he leaned against her, and she thought it anger.
“Take me there where I came from—to the village of my people!” she cried. “You are big and good to see, and many women will follow you! Take me to my people! Dreams are wiser than men; the wakundas send them. I wish to go back, that my child may smile and take my breast.”
And the man rose and began dressing for the trail.
“I will take you back,” said he. “Dreams are wiser than men.”
And before the day walked the two went forth on the long trail, back to the village of the woman’s people.
The man went before and the woman followed, bearing the burdens of the trail. But when the dawn came the man did a strange thing. He took the burdens upon his own shoulders, saying nothing. It seemed his heart had been softened; but his face being hidden, the woman could not see what was written there.
And the trail was long; but the man was kind. He seemed no longer the Mad Buffalo. He made fires and pitched the tepee like a squaw. He spoke soft words.