"How could I help that? It wasn't my fault."
"That you didn't pass him by on the other side? He died though, and left you the richest man in all the mountain tribes."
"What was the good? I couldn't carry all that, and come to you."
"Your mother asks what you will do with this dress."
Storm had given away a fortune without one pang of regret, but he was filled now with a sick longing for this gift from the four widows. To give it up? Oh, well, it would please his mother, make Rain happy. "It's all one to me," he said quite cheerfully. "And after all, I ain't no hunter that I should swagger about in such a kit. Old clothes are good enough for the likes o' me. But then, Rain, there's them widders. They'd cry their eyes out!"
He heard Rain singing her happy song, the squirrel song. Then she spoke as though she were crying.
"Storm!"
"Yes."
"We'll make a low-down savage of you, a Redskin brave like my brother Heap-of-dogs."
"All right. I wasn't much use as a white man, and my tribe here say I'll never make an Indian."