So the sun had dipped below the prairie before at last Shoshawnee spoke.
"The buffalo go west," he said slowly, as if the thing was of the utmost importance.
Shasta did not put a question actually into words, but he looked it. Shoshawnee understood.
"There is much pasture to the west. The buffalo eat the prairie to the setting sun."
"Do they eat the edge of the sunset also?" Shasta asked.
Shoshawnee shook his head.
"The edge of the sunset is the end of the world," he said. "At the end of all things there is no more grass."
Shasta was silent at that. It was so unbelievable. The thought stunned him. No more grass!
"But beyond the sunset," Shoshawnee went on, "when you come to the Happy Hunting-grounds, the grass is always green. And there the blue flower of the camass never fades, and the sarvis berries never decay."
"The Happy Hunting-grounds!" Shasta murmured in his low, husky voice. "Where?"