"You're taking a terrible risk," said Rising Wolf.
"What risk?" asked Rain, bridling at the word.
"Death!" was the answer.
"The Crow," said Storm, "risks more than we do."
"What do you mean?" asked Rising Wolf.
"Hell!" answered Storm—"Hell! If he's brave enough to risk Hell, we're not cowards enough to shirk so little a thing as death."
"We must go," said the priestess. "Yes, we must go. Else must my people perish.
"The lodge poles of our tipi"—Rain looked up at them—"have rooted and sprouted, so that I have to trim the buds off every spring. I thought our roots had struck here, that we should never leave our home. I must cut new poles for our journey."
"Why drag them across the World Spine?" asked Storm. "I'll cut a new set before we come out on the plains, and a cross to set up in front of our lodge door"—he leaned over and clutched his wife's work-worn hands—"to remind us of home," he added, "as well as to save the people."
"I must make a decent frock before we start," said the woman.