The call was especially strong when he was alone in the lodge, and the snow was driving heavily outside. Then the faces of the scout, the Little Giant and the beaver hunter appeared very clearly before him. His place was with them, if they were still alive, and in the spring, when the doors of ice that closed the valley were opened, he would go, if he could.
But the spring was long in coming. Xingudan himself could not recall when it had ever before been so late. But come at last it did, with mighty rains, the sliding of avalanches, the breaking up of the ice, floods in the river and countless torrents. When the waters subsided and the slopes were clear of snow Xingudan talked of moving. The lodges were struck and the whole village passed out of the valley. The tall youth, dressed like the others and almost as brown as they, who had been known among white people as Will Clarke, but whom the Indians called Waditaka, wondered what the spring was going to bring to him, and he awaited the future with intense curiosity and eagerness.