When Storm rode up and greeted him, Heap-of-dogs whispered behind his hand. "Brother Storm, there's going to be some fun."
"Rising Wolf," was Rain's greeting, "may the Sun bless you."
The white man saw in Rain's face the high cheekbones and pinched forehead of her people, free from face-paint though, aglow with health, and in a stern way almost beautiful. She moved with swift, savage grace, a creature of the wilds. Her smile was charming as she gave him welcome to her lodge, and asked Storm to make her brother comfortable. She lighted pipes for her white guest, Rising Wolf, and her brother Heap-of-dogs, and her husband Storm. Then she settled modestly in her place, on the woman's side of the hearth, confronting them.
"Certainly," the white man felt, "she has the manners of a lady, not of the conjurer, the professional charlatan."
According to Indian custom there was silence for a few minutes before they came to business. "You know my name, then?" said Rising Wolf.
Rain answered: "No-man, and my dear Storm, and Rising Wolf are the only Stonehearts in our country."
And the visitor had supposed he could pass for a Blackfoot! He had actually painted his face "for the mosquitos."
"It's much more comfortable," said Rain out loud, "in the fly season."
So she read his thoughts!
"Perhaps," he said with sharp suspicion, "you know what brings me?"