“ ‘O ghost, be kind.
Go away and leave me alone.
I am poor and have bad luck.
I am tired and want to rest.’
“Four times Cross Bull made this prayer. But the ghost paid no attention; it kept on whistling and swinging its legs. Then Cross Bull got angry. He took his bow and arrow and shot at the ghost. He saw an owl fly from the tree, and heard it cry in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt me so badly, you hurt me so badly.’ (Screech owl.)
“Cross Bull was so frightened he ran away in the dark. The ghost kept following; for whenever he stopped he heard it crying the same thing, over and over in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt me so badly, you hurt me so badly.’
“Cross Bull left the valley. He did not stop running until he was far out on the plains. Then it was daylight and the ghost left him. But he kept on running until he reached the Blood camp. Next night Cross Bull died. And that is the end of my story-telling.”
By this time it was late in the night and my Indian friends went to bed. I sat alone by the camp-fire. The moon was now in the west; and the handle of the Great Dipper, that wonderful clock of the north sky, pointed downward to the horizon.
Then I climbed the mountain side in the bright moonlight, to look out over the forests and the great plains stretching eastward. On the other side of the valley were mountains, with shining glaciers and snowfields. The aurora formed an arch of light across the north sky; streamers mounting to the zenith in yellow and yellowish red, and sometimes greenish white. They swayed backward and forward, now strong, now faint, until they faded and a luminous veil covered the sky, through which a bright star shone. There was no wind; and everywhere an impressive stillness, broken only by the river in the valley, and the solemn notes of the owl, “a haunting spirit.” [[119]]