“And in the time of the first frosts we reached our village and Paezha became my squaw. Also I got the ponies.”
Here Half-a-Day paused to fill his pipe.
“It is a good story, Half-a-Day,” I said. Half-a-Day lit his pipe, stared long into the glow of the embers, for the fires had fallen, and sighed.
“I have not spoken yet,” he said; “for one day in the time of the first snow, Paezha lay dead in my lodge, and my breast ached. Black Dog had killed her at the big spring. At the same place where I had first seen the look, there he killed her.
“I remember that I sat beside her two sleeps and cried like a zhinga zhinga. And my friends came to me, whispering bitter words into my ears. ‘Kill Black Dog,’ they said. And I said: ‘Bring him here to me, and I will kill him; my legs will not carry me.’
“But the fathers of the council would not have it so. And when they had buried her on the hill above the village, I awoke as from a long sleep, a very long sleep, and I was full of hate. They kept me in my lodge. They would not let me kill. I wished to kill! I wished to tear him as I tore the stinking wolf with my teeth! I wished to kill!”
Half-a-Day had arisen to his feet, his fists clenched, his eyes shining with a cold light. He made a tragic figure in the dull, blue glow of the embers.
“Come, Half-a-Day,” I said, “it is long passed, and now it is only a story.”
“It is more than a story!” he said. “I lived it. I wished to kill!”
He sat down again, and a softer light came into his eyes.