"Well? Let him hunger!" said Storm out loud. "I got to find Rain first."
Still feeling sick, he groped at the door flap, unfastened it, wrenched it aside, and reeled into the lodge. He could not hear properly, for the drumming of raindrops on the skin wall drowned any sound, although he had a sense which made his flesh creep of something stirring, of deadly menace waiting in the darkness.
Then with a sense of horror he remembered that Rain knew no word of English nor he of Blackfoot. In Dreamland, where all languages are as one, they used to talk of that, and how when they met on earth—yes, he was to sing the melody she loved best.
His mouth was dry. He could not sing. He was too frightened. He must! Yes; while he knelt down groping for the fire sticks which always, in an Indian tipi, lay just within the doorway on the left——
Now 'ere's to hold Tom Bow-oh-oh-le-hing,
The darling of our crew-hoo.
Would she remember? His shaking hands had found the fire sticks. With fumblings at his belt pouch, he got out flint, steel, and tinder, struck down brisk showers of sparks——
Faithful be-low, he did his doo-hoo-hooty
But death has broached him too-oo-oo-hoo-hoo—
He blew at the tinder until it kindled——
De-heth has broached hi-im too.
"That's right!" The fire stick caught, and showed him a torch, which he lighted. "How's that? Eh?" He looked up triumphant, and then, with narrowing eyes, peered out across the lodge.