Rain's brother rode off into the gloaming to carry out his orders, and to make his fortune.
* * * * * * *
Pale golden light revealed the sky line of the Great Plains to eastward, dreaming mountains awakened as the first grayness of the daybreak outlined their sheer scarps, their level snow fields. The hoarfrost of the meadow began to be veiled by the dawn mist and Heap-of-dogs sober, gloomy, resolute, rode out to meet his sister. She walked by her saddle pony, who trailed the new set of lodge poles, eight on either flank. Storm led his horse, which carried the two logs of the cross. The other ponies followed, stopping to get a bite of the sere brown bunch grass, then trotting a few paces to catch up with the leaders.
"Everything ready?" asked Storm, as his brother-in-law gave the peace sign by way of greeting.
"All," answered Heap-of-dogs, bending down from the saddle to caress the white man's hair. His hands and his feet were small and delicate, his touch like that of a woman. "My warriors," he added, "were too proud to dig the hole for the cross, but the women did that, and made the wedges."
"Just as I told you?" asked Rain—"opposite the Crow's trading wagon?"
"Three horse-lengths distant. I left space for your lodge between the Crazy Dogs' tipis, where we can guard you best. No-man came last night to visit the Crow. He's lying dead drunk under the trade wagon."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for him, so sorry," said Rain. "I couldn't find him in my dream. Brother, I couldn't find anybody. Ever since we left our home both Storm and I have been so lonely on our dream-trails. We can't find Catherine, or my mother. We pray for Hiawatha, but he does not come. All the dear Spirits have left us."
"Then the Crow's medicine," said her brother, "must be very powerful. You'd better turn back."
Not even Storm knew this woman so well as he did. She pressed on, resolute across the pasture and through the pony herd, which had started grazing. Before her she saw the village of her people, that far-flung ellipse of tipis, like the rim of a wheel dark yonder against the orange glow on the sky line. Plumes of blue smoke began to rise from the lodges, as the small group drew abreast, closing the southern edge of the camp. Not since her childhood had Rain in her waking life seen the beloved and familiar things of a Blackfoot village; rows of painted "dusty stars" which adorn the base of the lodge skin, representing puffballs; tripods beside the tipis which carry the bundle containing sacred things, or a brave's war dress; travois, the cart with trailing poles instead of wheels on which the very old folk, the babies, and little puppies ride with the marching tribe; rag dolls or blunt arrows lost by the children at play. The childless wife went on with an aching heart, while her brother rode ahead, curbing his restive charger to a foot pace, his magnificent war dress in black silhouette against the orange daybreak, the little ruby cloud-flecks. Storm followed her, his pony staggering under the heavy beams of the cross. The woman's heart was crying for the everyday things, the home life, the babies, the gossip, the dancing, the wholesome world which she could never know. Her man went towards the light through a peace which is not of this world. And so they came before the village was as yet astir, to the trader's fort of wagons, the tipis of the tribal police on guard, the hole in the ground with the wedges for stepping the holy cross. The warriors of the Crazy Dog band stood at their lodge doors grinning. Not one of them greeted the holy woman, though two or three in years gone by had come to her as pilgrims, and been helped.