The words were Omaha words, yet they sounded strange.
Again the voice was raised in the shadows and passed like a wind among the people, shaking them.
“I am Wa-choo-bay—he who followed the long dream-trail—and I am come back with a great wisdom for the tribes.”
But the people only trembled, and the old men whispered:
“It is not Wa-choo-bay, but his spirit. Well is the face remembered, but the words are not man-words.”
Then the stranger passed about the circle of the wondering people, touching them as he went, for he had heard the whispering of the old men. And the people shrank from him.
“I am Wa-choo-bay,” cried the stranger again. “I am the son of Sky-Walker. I am a man, and not a spirit. Give me meat, for I am hungry.”
And they gave him meat, and he ate. Then only did the people know him for a man.
In the days that followed, Wa-choo-bay told many strange things of the white-faced race whose camp fires were kindled ever nearer and nearer the people of the prairie. Also he said words that were not common words. They were medicine-words.
And before many moons had grown and died these things travelled far and wide across the prairie, until in many tribes the wonder grew. Around many camp fires was told the tale of how an Omaha had come back after being many years in the lands that lay toward the place of summer; also of the devil-boat in which he came, and of the new wisdom he was talking.