The Crow knew well that at any moment some friend of the sacred woman might cry a rescue, and short shrift would he get if the chiefs of the tribe awakened from their debauch before he could show them the accomplished fact. If he would live he must carry his audience with him, so now in the sign talk he explained to the crowd how much he admired their sacred woman, what a killing he and her brother would make if anybody dared molest her, how he proposed most honorably to make Rain his wife, so soon as he had freed her from a swindling charlatan and his bogus God. Meanwhile, in the greatness of his heart, the Crow, for this day's trading only, gave away a little glass, a chaser of rum, with every pint of fire water. He was perfectly sure that prime robes would be forthcoming to meet so great a business opportunity.
One may realize that when the blood ebbed out of Storm's face, lean from ten years of self-denial and frequent fasting, his ivory pallor and the bluish shadows would emphasize the deep-cut lines of age, of rigid character, the high austere and saintly beauty of him, the blaze of power in his fierce blue eyes.
"Be quick," he shouted in Blackfoot to the Crow. "You talk too much, and do too little—frightened of my God! You"—he turned to the man who held him pinioned—"how can I lie down on this bed of timber unless you loose my arms? Loose me, you fool, that I may kiss my woman, and take my place there, ready."
In sheer surprise the Indian loosed him, and standing free, Storm ordered the Crow, as a master to his servant, "Go and get a sledge hammer. The spikes," he said, "are useless unless you can drive them." He took Rain in his arms. "We are not cowards," he whispered. "Death is nothing to us, who have died so many times—and live forever. You taught me to be brave."
"Kill me," she whispered, when he kissed her. "You have your knife still. Save me from the Beast! I'm frightened! Save me!"
"Where is your faith!" he answered. "Our God shall deliver both of us. Trust Him!"
With that he whipped the knife out of his belt and brandished it, shouting to all the Indians. "Witness! The Crow stood at my mercy, but I have not stabbed him. God shall judge, not I!"
He flung his knife away.
Storm lay down upon the cross, his arms extended, his eyes looking up at her face, a smile upon his lips. The death song died in Rain's throat.
"We shall meet," he said, "in the Great Dream presently. Be brave."