DUSTY STAR

PART I

CHAPTER I

CARBOONA'S SECRET

In an old badger-hole among a maze of bramble-brakes and ancient thickets of thorn and juniper covering the foot of one of Carboona's eastern spurs, one morning very early, as Little-Sweet-Voice, the white-throated sparrow, was singing his earliest song, a great event took place.

It was twilight in the badger-hole, and only persons accustomed to odds and ends of day-light could have seen what was going on. Not that it mattered. The only person to whom it could have mattered was a grey mother-wolf, and she did not need the light.

The badger-hole had been enlarged, and specially arranged for the event, without the badgers having been consulted. This wasn't as rude as it sounds, for the simple reason that there hadn't been any badgers to consult. Long before the mother-wolf and her mate had gone apartment-hunting, the badgers had moved deeper into Carboona, leaving no address. Now that it was more roomy and better aired, it was a pleasant place enough so long as you didn't stub your nose against a jagged stump of pine root that pierced the northern wall. True it was a little damp in places, and got noticeably stuffier as you went further in; but it was a good wolf stuffiness, and helped to give the true home smell that warned strangers that all interfering noses had best keep out of the way.

Before Little-Sweet-Voice, at the tip of his fir-branch high over the hole, had come to the end of his song, seven baby wolves had got themselves born.

Seven little blind, hairless, helpless things that hadn't an inch of beauty between them; seven little flabby uglinesses that could do nothing but wriggle and suck. But such as they were, the old wolf loved her ugly babies with all her wolfish heart. For a long time no one—not even the father wolf—saw them but herself. A better place for being secret than the hole among the bramble-brakes she could not have chosen. The great old thorn-trees, with their twisty stems and thorny branches which had been growing twistier and thornier through countless moons, stretched their gnarled limbs high above the den and guarded endless secrecies as countless as the moons. And the brambles reached their twisted tangles this way and that in a bewildering labyrinth of thorns. While, dotting all the upper slopes, the junipers, large and little, stood up in dusk battalions above the lonely land. None but the wild furred feet of the wilderness ever went that way. In all its mazy length the print of human moccasins had never slurred the undergrowth trails. Even the wild creatures themselves did not greatly frequent it, by reason of its mighty growth of thorns, so that even among the long solitudes of Carboona, it was a loneliness apart.

It was some time before the little wolves got any idea of the outside thorniness and brambleness which hid them from the public gaze. All they knew of the world was the good smell and the good gloom of the badger-hole, where, as soon as their eyes were opened after the nine days, they could make out the immense grey mass of their mother, who came and went mysteriously, a mountain of warmth and food. And here, in the perpetual twilight, they slept and sucked, and sprawled and tumbled, and occasionally went tremendous expeditions, and stubbed their noses against the pine root that struck like a savage promontory into the abyss.

Not until they were several weeks old, and were really getting very troublesome in the den, did the patient old mother allow them their first glimpse of the world; and then only after she had taken every possible precaution to safeguard against anything, bird, beast and human, being on the watch.

The first coming out of the cubs into the sunlight was a wonderful affair. The old mother, having first scoured the country on all sides to see that no danger was lurking near, put her nose into the mouth of the den, and made a low noise in her throat. Instantly there was a hollow thumping and scurrying and scrambling and yelping, and then the badger-hole became a miniature volcano that shot seven small wolf-bodies into the light.

Out they tumbled, seven little furry fatnesses, with pointed noses, and pricked ears, and tiny black eyes that blinked nervously in the sun. And there they sat for a while in unspeakable amazement, and stared and blinked, and blinked and stared, and wondered where they were.

The first to move was a cub the merest trifle larger than the rest. He ran a few steps in an uncertain wobbling manner, stubbed his nose against a stone, yelped, backed almost as fast as he had gone forward, lost his balance on an old mole-hill, and rolled over on his back. And this was his first experience of the unevenness of the world. After that he lay and kicked, struggling with all his baby might to get right side up again. And his six brothers and sisters observed him from their superior elevation of six inches, and never offered to help; till, all of a sudden, it occurred to them what a glorious opportunity his upside-downness presented to them, and rolled down upon him in a body. During the scuffle which followed, the old mother sat and watched with admiring love. When the babies rolled over on their backs, or came to mimic disaster with roots or stones, she let them recover themselves as best they could, and learn by experience what were the hard things in the world and what the soft. And when she considered they had been long enough out of doors, she packed them back to bed again, and went off to hunt.

The cubs had played out of doors many times, and had grown quite used to the look of the bramble-brakes and the great thorns, and that immense hot roundness that went dazzling down behind the western peaks, when, one evening, the wolf-mother came upon a strange trail. Of all the creatures upon Carboona there was not one with whose body-scent and foot-scent she was not familiar. When the merest ghosts of scent came wafting along the tides of the summer air, her nose disentangled them delicately and never gave the right smell to the wrong owner. But the smell of the strange trail puzzled her. It belonged to neither bear, badger, fox, wolf, lynx nor caribou. It was buckskin, and yet not wholly buckskin; it was buckskin with something inside it which certainly was not buck.

The strange trail did not cross the brakes. That was fortunate, but it came dangerously near their northern extremity, and then turned east. The wolf followed it for a long distance till it passed out of her home range, and then slowly retraced it through the darkening spruce woods, sniffing suspiciously as she went. A week later she hit upon the trail again. This time the smell was fainter, but the trail itself was more disturbing: it actually touched the upper slopes where the junipers went black against the moon.

Three nights later Carboona's watching eyes saw an unaccustomed sight. They saw a gaunt grey shape pass silently and swiftly between the junipers in the light of the setting moon. From the jaws of the shape, a wolf-cub hung, very limp—swaying a little as its bearer trotted.

Past the junipers, past the beds of wild raspberries, over the granite-covered shoulder of the hill, deep into the black heart of the spruce woods, the old wolf went. She knew her way, though her eyes saw no trail. She had passed that way before, during the days and nights when her heart misgave her, because of the strange trail, and the knowledge that a new presence had come into the woods. She had no fear of the forest, so long as it lay far from the trail, and the thing she distrusted. For all that, the great secrecy that was upon her made her shun the open places where the moonlight glared, and keep rather to the good grey glooms where her body melted among the shadows, and seemed itself a shade. And the little furry fatness hanging helpless from her jaws gave itself up limply to its mother's will, and to the vast movement of the night.

The new den she had chosen as a refuge for her cubs lay among the innermost recesses of Carboona, below the granite peaks. No brakes here, no watching junipers: a waste of rock and scrub, scored by deep ravines and dried beds of water-courses that thundered in the thaw.

But black and inhospitable though the region was, it possessed the one thing dear to uneasy motherhood—absolute loneliness. She had dug the den herself, enlarging a natural hollow beside an enormous rock. Not even the father wolf himself knew as yet where the new den was; for by the unwritten law of wolf-life he was banished from the home during the infancy of the cubs.

Here the old wolf deposited her baby, leaving it in shivering loneliness to grow used to the new home as best it might till its brothers and sisters were brought to join it. Five times more the mother made the long double journey, each time carrying a cub. As she returned to the old den on the sixth and last time, the sun was already high above the eastern hills.

The last cub was not in a happy frame of mind. One by one, its brothers and sisters had been taken away from it, which meant that, as each hairy little bundle of warmth went out under the moon, the warmth in the den was that much the less. And when the fifth had followed the way of the others, the remaining cub felt solitary indeed.

At first he lay perfectly still, for that was his mother's command, though she had not put it into words. The deep mother-wisdom that warms the wits of the wild creatures has its own mysterious ways of conveying its meaning. "Lie still!" is one of the very first lessons a mother teaches her young. "Run home!" follows close upon it. To disobey either may mean death.

It grew colder in the den and lonelier. The last cub didn't want to disobey and he really did try to go to sleep; but cold and loneliness are uneasy bed-fellows, and he had a sort of feeling that perhaps if he went to the den door, he might find out where the rest of the family were. The little fat body lay curled up close, and, in spite of the warmth the family had left behind, tiny shivers shook it every now and then.

It was no use any longer pretending to go to sleep. The small bright eyes opened wide, and stared into the shadow that glimmered with the moon. And suddenly, out of the shadow, Fear came, and the cub shivered with something worse than cold. He had never been frightened before. It was a new and terrible experience. It was in his head; it was in his stomach; the thing was all over him; the very den was full.

He lay for a long time, trembling, and whimpering in a small smothered way. He hoped his mother might hear him, and come back; yet he did not dare to cry too loud lest other ears might catch the sound and lead some prowling enemy to the den. Dawn was just beginning to break when at length he could bear it no longer, and, in spite of his mother's strict command, he crawled to the mouth of the den.

With wide-open, frightened eyes, he stared out into the world. On the bramble-sprays the dew lay thickly. Dew was grey on the grass round the trodden doorway of the den. It was a damp world that glimmered in the yellow gleam of the dawn. Beyond the brambles lay the trees, beyond the trees, the rocky peaks; beyond the utmost peak, the blue vastness where the eagles have their trails. It all made the cub feel dreadfully small, dreadfully alone.

Yet somewhere out there, in the wet grey world of the dawn, his mother and the family were to be found. He put his baby nose to the ground and sniffed. The family smell was plain all about the doorway. A faint trail of it seemed to lead off towards the junipers, but when he took a step or two in that direction the trail was drowned in dew. He went back to the den-door, paused to sniff again, and set off in the opposite direction.

Why he went that way, he could not tell. Once he had started, he did not think of turning back. To return meant the den again. He had a distrust of the den. It was in the den that he had first known fear.

He went on for what seemed to him an endless distance among enormous jungles of bramble and fern. No sign of his mother, or the other cubs, nor any faintest whiff of the heavy family smell! Once a rabbit, leaping past, scared him out of his wits; and once—how his heart thumped with terror as he pressed himself close to the ground!—a great dog-fox went slinking to windward, spilling the musk of his murderous self into the telltale air.

For some time after the fox had disappeared, the cub crouched where he was, too terrified to stir. Then, bit by bit, his courage came to him again, and he went cautiously on his way.

He had just reached the end of the thickets, where the forest proper began, and was plucking up heart to enter the shade of the giant trees, when a new terror presented itself, and he crouched low as before. But this time it was no fox, lynx, or other four-footed enemy that threatened him. It was a creature that stood on two hind feet, with its fore-paws by its side, and an eagle feather in its hair.

The cub narrowed his eyes till they were as good as shut, with only the tiniest slit between their lids through which it could see the strange adornments the creature wore on its feet. He hoped, if he lay as motionless as a stone, that the creature would not notice him. When hunting was afoot, absolute stillness would often serve to hide you as effectually as a cover of leaves. In his utter ignorance of the world, he could have no idea of an Indian's piercing sight.

There was a swift movement, noiseless as the swoop of an owl's wing, and before he could open his eyes, he felt himself seized by the back of the neck and swung into the air.

When the mother-wolf reached the den for the sixth and last time, her fine sense told her in an instant that something was wrong. She entered the den with misgiving. As she feared, it was empty. Her nose found the trail immediately; but it was growing a little stale, for the sun was high now, and it had been made in the dawn dew. Nevertheless, the mother-passion within her sharpened the keenness of her scent, and off she went at a swift trot. Every time the cub had stopped, she sniffed eagerly, as if to drink his very body through her nose. When she took up the fainter trail of his movement, an uneasy light glittered in her eyes. Woe to the creature, whatever it was, which had dared to harm him, if she should find a second trail!

Where the maze of the thickets ended and the forest began she stopped dead, her hair bristling, her eyes alight. Here was the spot of the cub's capture! Here was the second trail! As she sniffed, and learnt the record told in smell, her anger rose. But with the anger went misgiving, and the uneasiness of fear; for here she recognized again the trail of the new presence upon Carboona, the dread of which had caused her to seek another den. The trail went straight into the forest, in a south-easterly direction. With the utmost caution the mother-wolf took it up, in a swift, noiseless lope, passing deeper and deeper into the vast wilderness of spruce and pine that went descending, always descending, towards the basin of the world. But long before it reached the lowest levels, the trail turned due east through the mighty gorge that sucks the prairie wind into Carboona's bosom like an enormous throat. Through the gorge went the old wolf, sniffing, peering, listening—every sense strained to the utmost, for now the buckskin scent was strong upon the ground, and the trail was very new.

Just where the gorge began to deepen at its western extremity, the wolf caught sight of a creature moving, the like of which she had never seen before. It was like a wolf that went upon its hind legs, and yet it was certainly not a wolf. Its gait was slow, yet certain, with a free, elastic movement that seemed to drink the wind.

The wolf slackened her pace, crouching so low as she went that the longer hairs on her belly swept the ground. Nearer and nearer she drew in her soundless progress, and as the distance lessened between her and her mysterious foe, the green fire in her eyes glittered more dangerously, for now her senses told her what her heart and brain had already guessed. She saw the little shape that lay in the Indian's arm!

And in spite of the unseen danger slowly but surely drawing upon him down the dark throat of the gorge, the Indian's elastic stride never faltered, as he proceeded towards the spot where he had hobbled his pony beside the camp of the evening before. And yet, before it was too late, the warning came.

He heard nothing; he saw nothing. That strange sense which seems to belong to the wild creatures, and the wild people, only, woke in the dark places of his brain. He turned his head quickly over his shoulder, sweeping the gorge with a piercing glance. He saw the fir-trees bracing themselves in the clefts of the precipice; he saw the tangled curtains of clematis and vine; he saw the ancient tree-trunks that went on dropping to decay through a thousand moons. One thing only he missed—the gaunt grey shadow where two points of light smouldered dully in the shelter of a rock.

Having satisfied himself that nothing living was in sight, he continued on his way.

As for the wolf-cub, he had long given up all attempts to escape. The continuous movement, together with the warmth of his captor's body, produced a soothing effect upon him, and he made no fresh effort to regain his freedom.

Suddenly, part of a rock on the Indian's right seemed to split and launch itself into the air, with a rasping, tearing noise between a growl and a snarl. Quick as a weazel, the Indian leaped aside. The long fangs, intended for his throat, missed their mark by half an inch, but struck his shoulder with a clash of meeting bone. Instantly he whipped out his knife, and stabbed fiercely at his foe. As he did so, the wolf leaped away. She, in her turn, was the fraction of a second too late. She snarled as she felt the blade. At the sound of his mother's unexpected voice, the cub gave a bleating cry. The noise seemed to send a wave of fury through her. Once more she sprang with eyeballs that blazed.

But this time the Indian was prepared. He met her savage leap with an equally savage blow. And as he struck, he let loose the ringing war cry of his tribe. With a yelp of pain and baffled fury, the she-wolf bounded aside. The knife had done its deadly work. The searching man-cry had completed it. Bewildered, terrified, utterly cowed, the great wolf went bounding up the gorge, bedabbling the ground with blood.

Not till late the following day, weakened with loss of blood and moving heavily, did she drag herself back to the cubs in the new den. But the fibres of the mother-heart were firmly-knit within her, and the fibres of the wolf-race tough. Day by day her strength came back to her; and day by day the father-wolf, having discovered the new home and seeming to realize what had happened, brought freshly-killed game to the door of the den. He did not dare to enter. But the grand old mother dragged her body painfully to the meat, and the cubs never wanted for a meal.

And within earshot of the new den, as of the old, Little-Sweet-Voice, the white-throated sparrow, sang his heart out into the sun.

CHAPTER II

WHY "DUSTY STAR" WAS

They called him "Dusty Star" because he happened in the night. All over the prairies of the immense West you might find here and there, in the old buffalo times before the White men ploughed, those little circles of puff-balls that weren't there yesterday and which began under the stars. "Dusty Stars" the red men called them, in their strange prairie tongue. The name, like other Indian names, was very ancient. It was a word that went walking in the beginning of the world.

Dusty Star, unlike his name, was very young. But he was big—very big for his nine years. Even in the star-time he must have done a lot of growing, for when the morning light crept into the tepee, he was seen to be a considerable-sized baby—extra large for a papoose. And the thoughts in his head were like the bones in his body—big, very big! He soon grew tired of lying in his little beaver-skin hammock, slung so cunningly from one lodge pole to another, and listening to the prairie larks as they sang in the blue morning. He did such tremendous things with his fat arms that the lodge-poles creaked. And he screamed with the sheer force of being alive. When he fell out of the hammock and all but broke his neck, his mother thought he would be safer if she let him crawl. Even in his crawling days, he learnt a lot about the world. He learnt how grasshoppers jump and prairie mice run. He wanted to crawl right out along the prairie into the middle west. His mother caught him just in time. After that, she fastened a deer-thong round his middle. It wasn't fair, and stopped him being one of the greatest explorers—for his age—which the world has ever seen. But it probably saved his life.

After that he grew up as all prairie children grow, with a great deal of play by day, and a huge deal of sleep by night. And the sun and the wind were great companions, and meant very much to him; and the sun baked him to a fine redness, and the wind searched him, and seemed somehow to send gusts along his blood. And often and often he would fall asleep, listening to the eerie whisper and whack of it, when the poles creaked and the lodge-ears tapped; or to the long sobbing chorus of the coyotes, far out where the prairie humped itself to blackness against an orange-coloured sky, and the east began to be hollow for the rising of the moon. And where the wind ran, and the moon walked, and the coyotes chorused, was to him a magical country, with edges as sharp as the prairie ridges, that girdled all his dreams.

On the day that he was nine years old, Dusty Star sat outside the tepee, blinking in the sun. From where he sat he could look far across the prairies, and so observe anything that might be moving over its immense expanse. For a long time he saw nothing at all. That was not strange, since in that vast apparent flatness there were thousands of hollows where all manner of four-footed Cunningnesses could go about their business and never show so much as the tip of an ear to any human eye.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and many of the prairie people were not yet risen from their noon-day sleep. Presently, over the high butte to the north, he saw a buzzard on wide motionless wings, "sitting" in the blue. The circles he made were so immensely wide and slow that he scarcely seemed to move in that high watch-tower of the air where he scanned the world for carrion. Next, a pair of hawks came into sight, skimming above the clumps of sage and bunch-grass. And now Dusty Star knew by their busy flight that the smaller prairie folk had begun to follow the runways in their eager search for food. Then, as he watched, came a flash between the sage bushes, as a jack-rabbit dashed to feed on the juicy leaves that grew under the alder thicket by the stream.

After that, nothing happened for some time, until suddenly he saw something very far off that was like the figure of a horseman riding over a swell. It was only visible, for a moment or two before it disappeared, but Dusty Star's piercing eyes had seen it long enough to make him sure that it was Running Wolf, his father, returning from the chase. The boy looked eagerly for his father's reappearance. He had been gone for some time. Whenever Running Wolf returned from good hunting he always brought much game with him, and there was feasting many days. When Running Wolf came into sight again, he was so close home that Dusty Star could make out quite clearly the form of a buck lying across the pony's shoulders. Also, his father carried something small and dark that cuddled against his left side. When Running Wolf had reached the tepee and Dusty Star had seen what it was that he had brought home, and when he had finally realized that the little wolf-cub was to be his very own, there were no bounds to his delight. To be the owner of a cub that would one day be a grown-up wolf—this was a thing beyond his wildest dreams!

Henceforward the cub was the centre of his little world. He called it Kiopo, because that was a name that meant for him all sorts of wolfish things, which he could not otherwise express and which he could never have explained to anyone grown-up; which, indeed, he could not explain even to Kiopo himself. He talked to Kiopo a good deal, and when he was not telling him of matters of the highest importance, he was plying him with questions. It did not discourage him in the least that Kiopo received the information with the utmost unconcern, and never answered one of the questions. Dusty Star concluded that baby wolves were like that. They might indeed be full of wisdom, but they expressed it solely by means of their teeth.

Kiopo left the marks of his teeth upon everything that he could bite. When Dusty Star's mother, Nikana, found them upon one of her best bead moccasins, so that many of the beads were missing, she gave him a tap with the moccasin that made him yelp with pain. But when Blue Wings, Dusty Star's baby sister, was, one fine day, found lying carelessly about on the floor of the tepee, to Kiopo's intense delight, and began to be treated like the beads, Nikana, roused by her screaming, gave Kiopo such a shaking, and such a cuffing between the shakes, that he really thought his last hour had come, and yelled as piercingly as Blue Wings herself. Not that he wanted to hurt things for the sake of hurting. He merely wanted to worry them, and to bite and bite, and bite.

It was all very strange after the old life in the Carboona, where the blue jays made such loud remarks to each other from thicket to thicket, and whoever hadn't got wings, went upon four feet. But here the tall, human creatures went always upon two only, and it was only the little Dusty Star that understood stomach-walking on all fours, and making companionable noises in the throat. As for Blue Wings—the cub that yelled when you bit her—she was a poor imitation of a human, though possibly with a high food value, if only they would let you try.

One of the hardest things to get used to was the tepee itself, with its peculiar Indian smells, so utterly different to the badger-hole where the only scent was the good home smell of the family, or perhaps of some fine old bone that had had many teeth at work upon it, and was trying hard to be dead. It was some time before Kiopo grew accustomed to the new smells, so as to be able to sort them out as belonging to the various objects which gave them. And when night had fallen, it was a dismal experience to wake up and see the inside of the tepee full of unfamiliar shapes in the glimmer of the moon. And then a great fear would take him, and he would lift the thin pipe of his cub voice and yelp aloud, because he wanted his mother, and because there lay at the back of his head a dim idea that there were ears upon Carboona that would catch the sound, and send a gaunt hairy body loping to the rescue. But the listeners upon Carboona were too remote to catch that wailing cry, and those that were close at hand were not disposed to be sympathetic. When Running Wolf shouted at him, he was all the more terrified, and yelped the louder, and when the angry Indian seized him and shook him into silence, his little heart was fit to break.

Under cover of the darkness, Dusty Star stole across to where the wolf-cub lay cowering, and gathered the little shivering body into his arms. And then he made him a lair in the buffalo robe that covered his own bed. And when Kiopo felt the warmth and good neighbourhood of the human brother's body, he cuddled himself against it with a sigh and whimpered himself to sleep.

In the day-time it was not so lonely because there were many things to sniff at and to watch. Besides there was always the big brother ready to play with him, and to come down on all fours from the great heights of the hind-leg-walking world, or to tickle him in the ribs when he rolled over on his back and exposed the round bulge that was his stomach to the public. It was wonderful how much Kiopo managed to cram into that bulge, and how his body grew in proportion to the bulge. His appetite never seemed to be satisfied. Bits of buffalo meat, old bones, odds and ends of waste, shreds of pemmican, or gollops of stew—the bulge took them all and still had room for more.

By the end of the second moon after his arrival, he was already far advanced in cub-hood, and showed signs of extraordinary development when he should be fully grown. And always he was learning new things. With Dusty Star for his constant companion and teacher he was learning very fast. And what he learnt, he never forgot, so that his knowledge was of the utmost service to him afterwards when the time came to fight his own battles far out along the world. His love and reverence for the little man-brother were unbounded. What the man-brother said and did were for him the great, important, splendid things. In a surprisingly short time, he had forgotten to think about his wolf-kindred, far away upon Carboona. Yet though he did not know it, the wisdom of his wolf-ancestors lay deep down within him in the secret lair of memory where the wild things never forget.

He was immensely curious about the outer world. There was the willow-copse by the stream where the brown water talked with a wet tongue. It was crossed by tiny trails of wood and water folk that had furtive scurrying movements and were very hard to catch. Kiopo's small wolf-eyes had the keenest possible sight, and what his eyes did not tell him about the little furtive folk, he found out by experiments with his paws, mouth and nose. Sometimes his curiosity got him into trouble, as upon the day when, pouncing upon an immense green grasshopper close to the water's edge, he lost his balance, and rolled head-over-heels into the stream. Fortunately the water was shallow, but the scrambling and spluttering and yelping were so tremendous that the commotion brought the big brother racing to the rescue. After that experience Kiopo learnt the lesson that however tempting game may be, it is best to look beyond it before you make your spring.

It was not long before he became a mighty hunter of mice. Between the grass bents and the stalks of the prairie plants, their runways ran like little roads down which they scurried in the early morning or late afternoon, doing a hundred miles of mouse geography to their watering-places at the stream. No cunning wolf-mother taught Kiopo to nose these narrow water-trails, and lie down beside them very craftily, with his head between his paws. Yet the ancient hunting-craft of wolf ancestors who had made their kills years beyond memory in the grey backwards of the moons, woke in his blood when the time arrived and showed him what to do. And Dusty Star, observing how, after countless failures, his cub gained mastery over the mice, admired his tireless perseverance, and loved the little hunter with all his Indian heart.

CHAPTER III

RUNNING WOLF MOVES

Running Wolf was like his name. He was always on the move. Ever since Dusty Star could remember anything at all, his father had been going and coming, disappearing without warning, and re-appearing unexpectedly, as if the feet of many wolves went hunting in his blood.

It was in the Red Moon, the moon of the harvest, that he now made up his mind to pay a visit to his tribe, and see how the world wagged itself where great Chiefs and Medicine-men smoked the medicine-pipe together in the wonderful painted lodges very far south. But as the journey was a long one, and the cold weather would follow the geese, before he could return, he decided that the whole family should travel with him, and take up their winter quarters with the tribe.

Once Running Wolf had made up his mind, there was not a moment to lose. Almost before you could have believed it possible, Osikomix, the piebald pony, had the lodge-poles fastened to his back, and the entire family—Nikana, Dusty Star, Blue Wings and Kiopo—were on their way, following the direction the wild geese would take when they left the vast northern waters when the call came from the south.

Their way lay at first through the meadows of high bunch-grass that lay beside the stream, where the alders were tinged with faint purple, and all the willow thickets shone a fine clear red. Kiopo badly wanted to stop and hunt mice, but Dusty Star made him clearly understand that no loitering by the runways was possible now, and that he must keep in his place in the procession behind Osikomix and Running Wolf.

After a while they came to the country of the cottonwoods, where the trees were turning yellow, and where the sarvis berries were scarlet like flame. And they reached the borders of the great southern prairies where the low roll of the ridges seemed to have no end.

Dusty Star was very excited. He had never travelled so far on the prairies before, nor imagined that the world could be so tremendously big. And he knew that somewhere out in that always increasing bigness lay the great camp for which they were bound. He had never seen such a camp, but his mother had told him stories. He knew it was full of people—braves, squaws, papooses—very many papooses, like the baby-sister which Nikana was now carrying on her back. And there was feasting and dancing, and pony-racing, and being religious, though the last was not at all tiresome, being full of buffalo dances, and wolf songs, and generally ending in a sarvis-berry stew. What Nikana omitted to mention, were the huskies: so Dusty Star did not know that every Indian camp swarmed with huskies—dogs that were half-wolves, always hungry, always quarrelling, always ready for a fight; and—what was even more important—Kiopo did not know.

At sundown, Running Wolf made his camp. The spot he had chosen was at the foot of a low cliff, under which ran a river, which would have to be forded before they could proceed on their journey. Running Wolf attended to Osikomix. Dusty Star helped his mother to collect brushwood for a fire. Kiopo went hunting along the river bank to get an evening meal. Blue Wings was the only person who remained idle. Yet even she sucked her thumb with unceasing perseverance, and made soft glug-glugging noises in her little Indian throat.

That night when Dusty Star had lain down in his buffalo-robe bed, with Kiopo curled at his feet, he stayed awake a long time. He listened to the voices that seem born of the darkness—the hoot of the little grey owl from the swamp across the river, the evening call of coyotes among the prairie bluffs and those other small mysterious sounds that creep about the silence without paws or walking feet. And overhead was the night—the enormous Indian night, with all its glittering fires—stretched like a huge tepee from horizon to horizon, though the stars upon its sides were anything but dusty, and if the Great Spirit walked there, he was careful that his moccasins should not crush the tiny stars. And when at length Dusty Star fell asleep, he dreamed of a great hunting across the windy places of the sky, where the buffaloes clashed their horns against the cliffs of Heaven, and the wolf-pack woke the echoes in the hollows of the moon.

The fording of the river next morning was a great delight. Dusty Star rode on his father's back, and Blue Wings went on her mother's. Osikomix, splashed grandly across, taking the water up to his belly. But when the party had reached the opposite shore, Dusty Star found that Kiopo was left behind. There he stood looking anxiously at the water, and enquiringly at his owners, as if asking which of them was coming back to fetch him. But as it was soon made plain to him that no one intended to do so, and that the party was preparing to continue on its way, he put his courage into all his paws and plunged into the stream. It was the very first time he had taken to the water, but his instinct taught him what to do, and he swam bravely across, dragging himself up the opposite bank, a little half-drowned caricature of a wolf, panting with excitement and pride.

After that, there were no more adventures for the day. At night, they camped as before, and again Dusty Star dreamed of the great hunting that swept between the stars.

It was in the afternoon of the nineteenth day's travel that they came at last within sight of the camp. When Dusty Star saw the great number of tepees crowded together, his eyes grew big with amazement. He had not thought there could have been so many lodges in all the world. To him it was a huge prairie city, whose houses were built of buffalo, with doors of buckskin at which no one ever knocked.

If Dusty Star's eyes were filled with wonder at the sight of so many tepees, Kiopo's nose was tickled with amazement at the quantity of smells. Every bush, every stone, every clump of grass he came to, told him of a dog. It might have been expected that fresh scents would greet him in a land of many trails. But so much smell (in, other words, so much dog) at once, was overpowering, and disturbed his peace of mind.

Nothing could have been quieter or more orderly than the manner in which the travellers approached the camp. It is true that Kiopo was a little in advance, and that his hair was bristling uneasily between his shoulders, but that was only to be expected with so much smell in the air. Suddenly, without a moment's warning, a large hairy body sprang with a snarl from a clump of bunch-grass, and rushed savagely upon him. Now for all his dog training with his Indian friends, Kiopo was, in the mind of him, as well as in the muscle, a genuine wolf. So, when the husky rushed, Kiopo leaped aside, as the wolves leap. Before his enemy charged again, the long wolf fangs glittered; there was a lighting plunge of the whole body, and down the husky's haunch went a long clean rip. The husky turned in fury, and his teeth shut like a trap. They closed—but not on the little wolf. They clashed on an inch of clear atmosphere which lay to the west of Kiopo's hairy neck. And in almost the same moment, the husky got a second slash.

But alas for Kiopo! Wolf-like though his tactics were, he was not yet old or powerful enough to fight with more than one foe at once. His enemy's attack was a signal to all the huskies on that side of the camp. The moment before, hardly another husky was to be seen. Now they seemed to spring from every tepee and clump of grass. At least a dozen bore down on the combatants in a yelping, snarling pack. In an instant, and before Dusty Star could do anything to save him, Kiopo had disappeared from sight under a mass of writhing bodies, legs, and tails. Dusty Star was desperate, and cried wildly to his father and mother to save his little wolf. Fortunately it was not the first time that Running Wolf and Nikana had had to disperse a mob of Indian dogs. With loud yells and violent kicks they charged the rolling heap. Several Indians, hearing the commotion, came running to their aid. Dusty Star himself was foremost in the attack, yelling, kicking, pulling, pounding with all his might, utterly regardless as to whether he might be bitten or not. Wild with fury against the huskies, and his deadly fear lest Kiopo should be killed, he hurled himself on the pack like a little demon.

Mercifully for Kiopo, the very number of his enemies saved him from serious harm, for he was so completely covered by them that only a few could reach him with their teeth, and many of the bites that should have been for him fell to the share of a husky; so that, while half the pack appeared to be worrying Kiopo, they were in reality falling foul of each other to his decided advantage. Kiopo, on the other hand, never ceased for an instant to use his powerful teeth. No need for him to watch for a chance to bite. He had simply to work his jaws like a piece of perfect machinery. He fought with all the desperation of an animal caught in a trap. What roused him to fury was not so much the combined attack, as the being pinned down by numbers so that he was powerless to escape. Every muscle in his strong young body was contracted to the utmost. Not even a fully-grown wolf could have fought with more determination and pluck.

At last the huskies, beaten and kicked on all sides lost heart and were driven off. What was left on the ground was an extremely mauled and tumbled specimen of what less than five minutes before had been a very trim little wolf.

Instantly Dusty Star was on his knees beside his pet. Kiopo was bleeding in various places, and panting hard. Dusty Star put his arms round him, and besought him not to die. To die, however, was one of the last things Kiopo intended to do. Exhausted he might be, and wanting to get his breath, but his body was sound and his spirit unbroken. In the eyes that looked up gratefully into those of his big brother, there shone a clear, unconquerable light. Very soon he was able to get up and shake himself. Then, keeping a wary eye on all sides, he walked forward with his party, and so entered the camp.

Although his reappearance alive, when, according to all husky calculations, he ought to have been dead, was the occasion for many growls, and a threatening show of teeth, his enemies did not venture to attack him again. Unwelcome though he was, it was plain that he had come among them under the protection of powerful friends. An unprotected stranger would have indeed led "a dog's life," and sooner or later, died a dog's death, unpitied to the last. But into their hard husky intelligence, this fact had embedded itself like a stone: What the lord-humans protect, it is dangerous to attack.

CHAPTER IV

KIOPO FINDS AN ENEMY

After this stormy introduction to the camp, the family settled down quietly enough. Running Wolf's long absence from the tribe had made no difference to his membership or position in it. Half-an-hour after his arrival, his tepee was set up in the place appointed for it by the head chief, and in two days' time the family were living the life of the camp as if they had never left it. To be quite truthful, Running Wolf, Nikana, and Blue Wings were living it. With Dusty Star it was different. The number of people of all ages, from newly-born papooses, up to braves and old squaws—some of them so wrinkled and bony that it almost seemed as if they had forgotten to be dead; the constant coming and going, the pony-racing, the chanting of medicine songs and the beating of drums;—all these things were so utterly strange and bewildering that, after the long day's experiences, he was almost too excited to sleep.

As for Kiopo, if an animal could have spent the whole of its puppyhood in the moon, and then, one slippery night, have all at once fallen off into the middle of the earth, it could not possibly have felt more an unwelcome intruder than Kiopo in his new surroundings. The fact of his arrival was now known to every husky in the camp, and each husky hated him from the bottom of his husky heart. For the most part they lived on the worst possible terms with each other. This individual dislike did not stand in the way of a combined attack upon a common enemy when opportunity offered. Left to themselves to arrange matters, Kiopo would not have had the ghost of a grasshopper's chance. There were two great obstacles to his immediate destruction. One was his owner, Dusty Star, who kept a pile of stones and a heavy stick, always ready for instant use; and the other was Kiopo himself.

THE ARRIVAL OF KIOPO WAS NOW KNOWN TO EVERY HUSKY IN THE CAMP, AND EACH HUSKY HATED HIM FROM THE BOTTOM OF HIS HUSKY HEART

Kiopo was now three parts grown, and was considerably larger than the ordinary wolf of his age. For the average full-grown dog, he was more than a match. The few that had ventured to fight him singly had learnt that to their cost. But against a combined attack of the whole husky rabble, he was naturally powerless. And owing to the peculiar make-up of the general husky mind, you never could tell from one moment to another when the rabble would unite. He knew himself surrounded by enemies. Go where he would, hackles were raised, lips curled back, and glaring eyes were fastened upon him. It was small wonder if, as week after week went by, he became nervous, irritable, and depressed.

Among all his foes, the one of whom he stood most in dread, was a big dog called Stickchi. He was a surly, sour-tempered, evil-eyed brute whom none of the other huskies dared to face, but whom they nevertheless regarded as one of the leaders of the pack. Stealing, fighting, and bullying were accomplishments which had earned for Stickchi this position of authority, and he took a constant delight in showing his power. It was he who had led the attack on Kiopo's arrival in the camp, and now he hated him with a murderous hatred. Kiopo returned the hate in full, though he stood too much in awe of the great bully to venture to attack him when they met. The principal thing that enraged Stickchi was that, while the other huskies at once got out of his way as their acknowledged master, Kiopo only avoided him at the last possible moment after he had fully expressed his feelings by drawing back his lips from his dangerous teeth in a defiant snarl. Then, when infuriated beyond measure by this open defiance of his authority, the bully charged his foe, Kiopo, leaping lightly aside, would seem to send his supple body floating through the air, and land a dozen feet away, only to crouch for a new spring, and bare those evil-looking teeth as before.

Yet in spite of his defiance, Kiopo harboured a great uneasiness at the back of his mind, for his keen wolf-intelligence told him that sooner or later, the day must come when the contest for mastery could be no longer postponed, and that the struggle would be a fight to the death.

Dusty Star, for all his vigilance, did not fully understand. He could not think why it was that Kiopo generally kept so close to the tepee, and rarely ventured any distance away unless he went with him. This was because Stickchi was as cunning as he was cowardly. Whenever he saw Kiopo with any one of the family he did not attempt to attack him, but contented himself with growling deep in his hairy chest, and looking very ugly. Like many other bullies, he was easily frightened, and he never forgot one particular experience when Kiopo had been busily gnawing an elkbone behind the tepee. Stickchi had made up his mind to have the bone. Believing that no one saw him, he had crouched on his stomach in his most cunning manner, and had begun a stealthy game of stalking. If Kiopo had not been so engrossed in his bone no amount of Stickchi's artfulness could have caught him unawares. But the treasure had such flavoury bits of very high meat attaching to it that, for once, he was completely off his guard. So, bit by bit, Kiopo blissfully gnawed, and, bit by bit, Stickchi's stomach drew nearer.

There is nothing much more exciting than to stalk something that is already stalking something else. And so, when Dusty Star, returning from the other side of the camp, came up quietly and saw the game that was being played, he joined in with delight. Inch by inch the artful Stickchi's stomach trailed elaborately over the ground, and, inch by inch, Dusty Star gained upon him.

At last there was only a tuft of wild turnip between Stickchi and his prey, and then open country for at least six feet.

Hardly daring to breathe, Dusty Star gathered his body together very tightly. In his right hand was a heavy stick. Stickchi also was making himself very tight, preparing for the final rush. He wriggled his body slightly, bracing his hind feet firmly against the ground. There was a second's pause before he uncoiled the powerful spring that was himself, and hurled his body on his unprepared victim. In that momentary pause a human whirlwind loosed itself on him from behind, and a heavy blow descended on his head.

With a yelp of fear and pain he bounded aside, twisting half round as he did so, to see what had attacked him. Quick as lightning, Dusty Star struck again, this time in the very middle of the husky's back.

The bully did not wait for another blow. Yelping with terror, he turned with his tail between his legs, and fled across the camp for his life.

After this lesson he observed Running Wolf's tepee from a respectful distance. But it only served to increase his enmity towards Kiopo, and he nursed black revenge at the bottom of his evil heart.

CHAPTER V

"SITTING-ALWAYS"

Among the many odd and unexpected things which Dusty Star found in the new life in the camp, one of the most peculiar and unaccountable was a grandmother, whose name was Sitting-Always.

Up to the present, a grandmother had been entirely wanting in the arrangement he called the World. That there was a great Spirit called the Sun, he knew. He also knew that there was another less great one called the Moon. And there were the stars. These also were spirits. They sat about in the sky and generally had a good time. If you watched them carefully against the tops of the lodge-poles, you could see that they gradually did their sitting a little higher up, or a little lower down; and sometimes, especially in the Mad Moon, they actually ran. To watch a star run swiftly down a steep place in the sky and disappear, made your heart jump. When the running stars which did not fall off into the dark reached the prairie, they turned into the puff-balls the Indians called "dusty-stars."

But a grandmother, it appeared, though neither a spirit nor a star, was a Great Power to be reckoned with. There were days when she painted her face bright yellow. These were solemn occasions. If you made a noise or got in her way, she would wrinkle her skin till the paint cracked. If you continued the annoyance, she would smack. As a painted curiosity Dusty Star observed her with awe.

His first introduction to her was not on one of her painted days. Without wanting to be rude he thought her face looked more like raw buffalo hide than anything else he had yet met. Her hands also seemed of that material, and did not feel pleasant when they felt his arms and legs. Dusty Star objected to being mauled, even by a Great Power; but he bore it as well as he could, because his mother told him to stand still; only from that day onwards his grandmother's hands were the part of her body he most thoroughly distrusted.

The second time he saw her was when she came to the tepee on her way to take part in a medicine-bundle ceremony. She was very grandly dressed in a beaded buckskin robe, and her face was thickly coated with the famous yellow paint. Dusty Star was squatting with Kiopo at the back of the tepee, watching his mother making pemmican, when this yellow vision peered in upon them through the opening. He stared at it with astonishment. He was not afraid, but it made him feel uncomfortable. It was as if his grandmother's face, like the maple leaves, had gone yellow with the Fall. And from the middle of the yellow, her sunken eyes glared blackly in the hollows of her head.

Kiopo also disapproved of the vision. That was very plain by the way his hair bristled along his back, and his upper lip curled back to show his fangs while he snarled.

The yellow face of Sitting-Always scowled between the eyes, and made the paint crack. She declared she would not enter the tepee unless the husky was first driven out. When Nikana explained that Kiopo was not a husky but a true wild wolf, and that when he snarled through his teeth it was best to let him be, Sitting-Always was more displeased than ever. Like most old Indians she firmly believed that the wolves had a "medicine," and by a "medicine" she meant a power that was stronger than either wolves or men. She herself was a great believer in "medicine." Half the things with which her tepee was stuffed were supposed to possess a medicine of one kind or another. Only she infinitely preferred tame medicine—the sort you stored in painted parfleches—to the wild kind on four legs that bared its fangs and snarled. So when she had shot out a few biting remarks about beasts and boys in general, she took her yellow face out of the opening and stalked angrily away.

After that Dusty Star saw her quite often when Nikana took him with her on visits to her tepee, and the yellow maple-leaf face had given way to the buffalo-hide one, and her teeth were the only yellow things she had in her head. By degrees, his awe of her wore away, till one day when she presented him with a rich plateful of sarvis-berry stew, he arrived at the conclusion that, after all, a grandmother, like the buffalo, could have her uses, and be very nearly pleasant when she did not paint her face.

Kiopo, however, never changed his mind. Not even the richest stew could have made any difference. With or without her paint, his deep wolf wisdom taught him that here was an enemy, and whenever she came near him, he always showed his teeth.

It was in the moon that the Indians call the Mad Moon, or, as we call it, November, that Kiopo began to take on strange ways, and to stay away, for days together. When he returned from these mysterious absences, he was in the habit of sneaking back into camp under cover of the darkness. In the morning, when Dusty Star spoke to him very plainly, and asked him where he had been, Kiopo would turn his head away with an uncomfortable expression in his eyes. Dusty Star began to watch the wolf's movements, growing more and more anxious to find out where he went. And the closer the human brother watched, the deeper grew the wolf-brother's cunning day by day. Neither going, nor returning, did Kiopo let himself be seen.

Dusty Star grew afraid lest he should disappear once for all, and never return. His fear was so torturing that he tied him with a raw-hide thong, and fastened it to one of the lodge-poles. There was a high wind that night, and the poles strained and creaked; but it was not entirely owing to the wind; and, in the morning, Kiopo had gone.

Those were the evenings when Dusty Star, lying awake in the tepee, could hear the coyotes raise that eerie song of theirs which they love to sing after sunset on the high buttes. It always began in the same way, with a succession of short barks, growing gradually louder and higher, and always ending with a long-drawn, squalling howl. And as the boy caught the high-pitched, yowling cries ringing out in the dusky air, he knew that God's Dog, as the Indians called him, was at his medicine-making again, making medicine with his voice. Through enormous spaces of the twilight, these uncanny cries set his brain spinning. The cries ceased to be mere coyote notes; they became voices crying the names of unfamiliar, yet unforgettable things; until at last, when the unearthly chorus became too piercing to be borne, he pulled the buffalo robe over his head, to deaden the terrible sound.

If the coyote cries affected Dusty Star so powerfully, they affected Kiopo equally, though in a different way. At times they made him angry, at others, wholly miserable. When Kiopo felt upset, he always wanted to get hold of something to worry with his teeth. So the raw-hide thong came in very useful, and after gnawing for half the night, Kiopo was free. Once his own master again, he did not waste valuable time sitting down to think. Softly as a trail of mist, he drifted out of camp, and not a husky of them all winded him or saw him go.

The very morning after Kiopo's departure, Sitting-Always was taken ill. She lay on her couch of antelope skins and moaned with pain. While Nikana went to summon the medicine-man, Little Fish, Dusty Star was left to watch his grandmother. He had never seen any one ill before, and the noises she uttered made him feel uncomfortable. When he asked her if the pain was in her chest, she said it was lower down. Dusty Star nodded his head wisely. He had suffered pain in that part himself. It was the place that made you wish you had not eaten berries before they were ripe. He observed his grandmother gravely for some time. Suddenly without warning, he doubled up his fist and thumped her on the spot where she complained of the pain. This he did, because he knew that if you hit things, they sometimes went away. He hoped that if he could hit his grandmother's pain right in the middle, it might drive it out.

Sitting-Always uttered a loud cry. Mistaking it for a shout of triumph, Dusty Star struck her again. This was more than she could bear, and she uttered such a piercing scream that the boy was startled. Still it seemed to prove that the thumping was taking effect. He was preparing to smite her for the third time when his mother came hurrying into the tepee.

With groans of pain and anger, Sitting-Always explained what had happened. Naturally Nikana was very angry. She could hardly believe that the boy could have dared to take advantage of his grandmother's helplessness to play her so evil a trick. Without waiting to hear his own account of the matter, she gave him a sound cuff or two, and ordered him to go at once and fetch Lone Chief, the medicine-man, since Little Fish had said he could not come.

Only too glad to escape, Dusty Star rushed indignantly out of the tepee.

Lone Chief's tepee lay at some distance from the camp, round the north-west corner of Eagle Bluff. He was understood to be a great medicine-man. His medicine, or Supernatural Power, was very strong, though it was not always that he could be prevailed upon to put it to the test. Among the many mysterious things about Lone Chief was that no one could ever say with certainty where he was to be found. Wandering across vast spaces or journeying to the edge of the world, had got into his feet. Hunters from the far west would bring tidings of his camp on the shore of the mighty lake that washes the feet of the Rockies for half-a-hundred miles. Deep in the North, on the lonely barrens where the wolves howled at sundown, and the red-fringed pools were a-glimmer in an unearthly light, his slightly drooping figure might be seen moving soundlessly in the windy twilight along the deep-worn trails of the caribou. Or in the torrid south lands where the salt lakes were caked with brine, and the antelopes, startled by the solitary figure, floated across the desert like vapours carried by the air, Lone Chief travelled till he filled his head with the roar of the gulf of Mexico.

To the tepee of this extraordinary, and much-travelled person, Dusty Star went with a reluctant tread, and a feeling, which, if it was not exactly fear, was certainly one of awe. When he came at last within sight of the camp, he saw that Lone Chief was at home, smoking his pipe in the doorway of his tepee.

Dusty Star advanced slowly. When he reached the tepee he sat down in front of the medicine-man. Neither of them spoke for some time, although no one had told the boy that this was the politest way of beginning a conversation, when it is not necessary to talk about the weather. So Lone Chief gazed politely beyond Dusty Star's head, and Dusty Star stared politely at Lone Chief's moccasins, while now and then a maple leaf drifted down beside them.

When the fourth leaf had fallen, Dusty Star explained the reason of his visit.

Lone Chief waited a little before he replied, because of his habit of being very sure about his thoughts before he made words to fit them.

And while Lone Chief made his words, his gaze struck into his visitor's face with the edge of a tomahawk. Dusty Star returned the look without flinching and noted the way in which Lone Chief painted his face. And indeed it was something to observe, for across his forehead and down his cheeks went bars of black and yellow and red, as if his face were a cage to keep his eyes from rushing out.

"My grandmother has a pain here," Dusty Star began abruptly, indicating the place.

He did not say any more then, knowing that Lone Chief would know quite well why he had come, so that any further explanation would be merely throwing words away.

"When did it begin?" the medicine man asked.

"She made many noises this morning," Dusty Star answered. "She is making them all the time when she does not like herself inside."

Lone Chief remained silent.

"Have they made any medicine for her?" he asked presently, with a shade of suspicion in his voice.

It was an awkward question. Dusty Star wished to be quite truthful. At the same time, he did not want to confess what he had done. He had intended the thumping for medicine, though it was hardly the same thing as the grown-up people made, particularly as he had performed it without saying any medicine-words with it. It was his grandmother who had said the words, and they differed considerably from what the medicine-men used.

"No," he said at last. "They have not used any medicine." He could not find courage to add. "But I thumped."

After which nothing was said by either of them for a long time. And the maple leaves went on falling.

At length Dusty Star thought it was time that Lone Chief should begin to make preparations to start, if he intended to visit his grandmother. So he looked into the painted face and said.

"The shadows grow longer."

Lone Chief understood.

"Yes," he answered solemnly. "When the sun goes towards his lodge, it is what the shadows are accustomed to do."

It was not the words themselves which told Dusty Star what was going on in the medicine-man's mind, but that unspoken knowledge which flashes, none knows how, from one prairie-dweller to another along the invisible trail. In an instant he realized that Lone Chief did not intend to come. Slowly rising to his feet, he gazed straight into the medicine-man's face. Then with a clear, ringing tone, he spoke in a voice that was almost a cry.

"I am sent to bid you to come to my grandmother Sitting-Always, who is not happy with herself inside. If you do not come, the pain will drive her along the wolf-trail; but she does not wish to go."

He ended abruptly, his body held very stiff, like a young larch-tree when there is no wind. And in his eyes, fixed upon the medicine-man's face with an unblinking stare, a spark glimmered as if his mind were set ablaze.

Lone Chief looked at him in astonishment. In the many thousand leagues his moccasins had travelled, he had never met anything like this. That a mere boy—hardly more than a child—should find the daring to address him, Lone Chief, the famous medicine-man, words which were like a command uttered by a full-grown man, was an astounding thing. In spite of himself, he felt uneasy. What was it, he asked himself, which made this boy so strangely different from other boys? The cunning eyes, practised to read the faintest signs on all faces and all trails, employed their utmost skill now to read the secret hidden in the boy. But that strange glitter in the boy's eyes baffled him; and when, after a long gaze, he looked away into the distance, he had a curious feeling that he had been questioning the eyeballs of a wolf.

He moved his hand in the direction of the sun, now almost touching the rim of the western hills, saying as he did so:

"When the sun has entered his lodge, I will come."

With a glow of triumph, Dusty Star knew that he had won. He also knew that Lone Chief would waste no more words. He simply bowed, to acknowledge his gratitude; then turned, and ran swiftly towards the trees. As he ran, the lithe movements of his body caught the medicine-man's eye.

"That way the wolves run, with their whole body," he murmured approvingly. "There is medicine in his feet."

CHAPTER VI

THE MEDICINE-MAKING

When Lone Chief arrived that evening, an hour after sundown, Sitting-Always was worse. In spite of that, her spirit was not sufficiently broken to be pleased that Lone Chief should attend her. However, as Little Fish had refused to come, and Lone Chief was too great a person to offend, she had to disguise her dislike and fear of the medicine-man as well as she could.

The tepee was so crowded with people that any one not acquainted with Indian customs might have thought that Sitting-Always had fallen ill in order to give a party. Dusty Star was there, of course, because his grandmother's sickness was a very splendid entertainment, not to be missed; but he had taken care to keep well hidden behind a couple of parfleches, so that the sight of him might not exasperate the patient.

Lone Chief's arrival made Nikana very nervous. She wished she had not invited three other medicine-men to attend, without first waiting to see if Lone Chief would come. It would be so extremely awkward if they arrived in the very middle of his medicine-making. He might not mind. On the other hand, he might object, and be very angry. She devoutly hoped they would not come.

Hardly taking any notice of his patient, Lone Chief began his preparations immediately. First he placed four round stones in the fire to get hot. While they were heating, he remained seated, looking at nobody, with his eyes half closed. When he considered the stones were hot enough, he uncovered his medicine drum, and held it over the fire. Dusty Star, craning his neck round the parfleches, gazed at the drum with wonder. It was painted yellow to represent a cloudless sky. In the middle, a bright red ball indicated the sun. He wondered if Lone Chief intended to put it on his grandmother's head, for a hat. When the drum was sufficiently warmed, Lone Chief looked round on the company and declared that he could not begin his medicine till every one except Nikana went out. There was no use in arguing about it, because a great medicine-man's word is law. One by one, the visitors reluctantly withdrew. Dusty Star, in the deep shadow behind the parfleches, made himself as small as possible, humped upon the ground.

As soon as Lone Chief had seen the last visitor, as he believed, depart, he raised the drum, and began to sing a medicine-song, beating time, as he sang, upon the drum. It was a very peculiar song about buffaloes, wolves, and thunder, and at the end of every verse, Lone Chief barked like a coyote. When he had finished the song, he took an ember from the fire, and placed some dried sweet pine upon it. As the smoke rose, he held his hands in it, and prayed to the Spirits of the sun, and of the buffalo, that he might have power to find out with his hands the spot where Sitting-Always was ill. He then rose, and went across to the patient. Dusty Star watched his movements with such excitement, that it seemed as if his eyes would fall out of his head.

It was when Lone Chief was in the very middle of his examination that the event which Nikana dreaded took place. No fewer than four other medicine men stalked into the tepee. All were heavily painted, beaded and feathered, and each carried a drum. Dusty Star shrank, if possible into a smaller space than before.

Without uttering a word, the four sat down in a half-circle about the fire, and began to smoke their medicine pipes. Lone Chief continued to move his hands over his patient's body as if nothing extraordinary had taken place. He was annoyed at the intrusion of his rivals, but was too dignified to show it. He fully believed his power to be far greater than theirs, and was prepared to treat them with contempt.

Sitting-Always was relieved in her mind now that the other medicine-men had come. If it annoyed Lone Chief, so much the better. It would make him exert his medicine to the utmost.

When Lone Chief had finished his examination, he lifted his drum again, and re-commenced his song, sitting with his back to the newcomers, as if they were not there. As each one of them enjoyed great importance in his own eyes, Lone Chief's action made them determined to perform their medicine as loudly as possible. First one and then another drew his pipe from his mouth, and lifted his drum.

The first to do so was Kattowa-iski. His doctoring power came from the beaver.

Kokopotamix followed him. His medicine was from the grizzly bear.

Apotumenee came third. He took his medicine from the buffalo, and had two buffalo horns fastened to his head.

The last to begin drumming was Ohisiksim. The Thunder-bird had given him his medicine, which was very much sought after when the tribe was short of rain.

At first the drumming was slow and soft, growing louder by degrees. Then Kattowa-iski got up and began to dance, striking his drum in imitation of the beavers when they hit the water with their tails. Kokopotamix then rose and imitated a grizzly bear when he walks on his hind legs. Apotumenee and Ohisiksim began their performances at the same time. Apotumenee crouched with his head lowered, and dug his horns into the ground to imitate buffaloes digging wallows in the Fall, while Ohisiksim blew out a spray of water from his mouth to suggest a thunder shower.

All this time Lone Chief went on drumming as if nothing else was going on.

And now the noise of the drums, louder than ever, made the tepee throb with sound. It maddened Sitting-Always who screamed out again and again that it was driving the pain into her head; but as no one paid the slightest heed to her cries, she put her hands over her ears, and moaned in despair.

And now the medicine-men, as if excited by their own drumming, grew wilder in their movements. Kokopotamix's walk became a dance in which he clawed the air like a grizzly sharpening his claws upon a tree. Kattowa-iski banged his drum like a beaver with a hundred tails. Apomumenee made terrible roarings and bellowings in his throat, like a bull buffalo; while Ohisiksim sprayed his thunder-showers so far from his mouth that they moistened Sitting-Always in her bed.

Dusty Star, looking out upon it all from his hiding-place, felt a strange excitement growing within him. To him, the antics of the medicine-men became so life-like that, more and more, they seemed to grow like the things they represented; and in the flicker of the fire, on which, from time to time, Nikana put more fuel, the shadows on the sides of the tepee danced and balanced, as if they also were alive. He did not understand the new feeling; only it seemed to have to do with Kiopo; almost as if Kiopo himself were crouching by his side. And the wolf that was in Kiopo seemed to urge the wolf that was in Dusty Star so that he felt that he must shoot his body in amongst the dancers, and make, with Kiopo, the medicine of the wolves.

The movements became wilder, and the drumming louder. The figures swaying round the fire, appeared to have lost themselves in the medicine and to feel nothing but the dance. It was not Kokopotamix only who was there, or Kattowa-iski, or Apotumenee, or Ohisiksim; nor even a Grizzly bear, a Beaver, a Buffalo, or a Thunder Bird; but all the spirits, and the beasts, and the birds, of the lonely places, and the great silences of the enormous West. Either it was the tepee which had expanded into the prairie, or the prairie which had crowded into the tepee. Dusty Star crouching behind the parfleches could not tell which. All he knew was that the wild dance of the prairie was tingling in his feet, and the voices of the prairie calling in his head.

Suddenly, with a ringing cry, he leaped from his hiding-place, and landed on hands and knees in the middle of the tepee. Then, with head thrown back, and eyes glittering, he gave the hunting-call of the wolves.

If the Thunder-bird itself had suddenly alit with flapping wings in their midst, the medicine-men could not have been more utterly taken by surprise. The dance came to an abrupt stand-still. Even Lone Chief stopped his drumming, and stared in astonishment. Sitting-Always, not being able to see clearly, because of her position, thought a wolf had entered the tepee, and screamed aloud with fear.

Before any one could move, Dusty Star, now barking like a coyote, began to run on hands and feet round the fire. Quicker and quicker he went, barking and leaping up and down as if all the madness of the Mad Moon were in his blood, and he were forgetting to be Indian, and remembering to be wolf.

If Lone Chief had given the order, Nikana would have seized her son; but Lone Chief was disturbed. Dusty Star as the grandson of his patient was one thing, but Dusty Star as this leaping madness crying like a wolf, was totally another. He did not approve; yet he did not dare to interfere. What he had felt vaguely in the afternoon, he knew for a certainty now. There was medicine in the boy. It was the true medicine—the medicine of the lonely barrens; of the lairs in the glooms of the spruce forest; and of the wolfish crags where the air throbbed with the thunder of the streams. Great Medicine-man though he was, it was a power he would have given many buffalo robes to possess. He knew himself to be in the presence of a medicine more mighty than his own. And because he knew it, he did not dare to answer the expectancy of his companions by ordering that Dusty Star should be turned out of the tepee.

As for Dusty Star himself, he knew nothing at all about possessing "medicine." All he knew was that he felt very splendidly mad, with an uncontrollable desire to throw his body in the air, and cry wolf calls with his throat. And the fact that none of these important medicine-men, nor even his mother, made any effort to stop him, encouraged him to an adventure of great antics which he would not have believed possible in his most tremendous dreams.

Moment by moment, a wilder spirit of mischief seemed to enter into him. The occupants of the tepee looked on in amazement, as the lithe crazy shape, leaped and crouched, howled, barked and sang.

Rising suddenly to his full height, he took a flying jump and landed close beside his grandmother's couch. Sitting-Always terrified, out of her wits, uttered a piercing cry.

Up to the present, Nikana had sat rigidly still as if mesmerised by her son's madness. But her mother's cry of fear broke the spell, and she darted forward to seize him. But Dusty Star was too quick for her. Springing back across the fire, he gave, with a full throat, the hunting cry of the wolves. Then, before any one could stop him, he tore back the door-flap and fled laughing from the tepee.

CHAPTER VII

HOW THE WOLVES SANG

Next day, Sitting-Always had recovered. The awkward part of it was that no one could tell which of the medicine-makers had brought about the cure. Dusty Star went about with an uncomfortable sense that, sooner or later, he would be punished for his share in the performance. It had been a splendid piece of frolic; and when you had enjoyed yourself in an extra special way, it generally happened that the grown-up people would come down heavily upon you. Yet as the day went on and nothing happened, he felt more and more bewildered. He had often been punished for naughtiness far less daring. Now, when he had set everybody at defiance, no one said a word. But there were eyes. He could not hide the fact that people looked at him in a strange way as he went about the camp. Even in the home tepee his father and mother observed him curiously, and he felt their eyes upon him even when he pretended not to know.

Gradually, as the days went by, the impression faded. There was a more important thing that haunted his mind continually. Kiopo did not come back.

The weather grew colder. There was much business in the upper sky. By day it took the form of a great arrow-head of wings, driving from the north; by night it was a voice. And as the harsh honking cry fell from the roof of the world, Dusty Star knew that the vast waters of the North were giving up their geese.

And when the last arrow-head had winged, and the last honk fallen, the night-breeze that came sighing along a thousand miles of prairie was barbed with early frost.

One night, the strange restlessness that was in the hearts of the coyotes, making the prairie ridges clamorous with their choruses, disturbed Dusty Star so strongly that it brought him trouble in his dreams. He woke with a sense that something was calling him. As he listened, he recognized the familiar and yet always uncanny way in which the coyotes arrange their evening chorus—the short barks of the opening bars, which grow louder and more acute, till they change to the final howl. They were singing to-night as coyotes had chorused it a million times before. Yet to-night there seemed to Dusty Star to be something special in the cry, as if it were an invitation to him from the prairie folk to go out and do something, or be something, which he had neither done nor been before. Without waiting to question what the thing might be, he got up softly, and crept out of the tepee. Outside, the camp lay very still. Most of the inhabitants had gone to bed. Only here and there a lodge glimmered with the light of an inside fire which had not yet died down.

Dusty Star looked carefully round on every side to see if anything moved, and then glided away into the darkness.

The coyote calls had died away now, but he fancied that they had come from the direction of Look-out Bluff. The bluff was known to be a bad place. The Thunder-bird (so they said) visited it in the moon when the grass is green, and darkened it with his wings. Old Ahitopee, moreover, who had gone upon the Wolf Trail many moons ago, was reported to make evil medicine there, and to hob-a-nob with the prairie wolves. Nevertheless, Dusty Star took his courage in both hands, and went towards the bluff.

He was about half-way there, when he caught, far out upon the prairies, a faint, but carrying note. He stopped, listening intently, but it did not come again. For all that, Dusty Star was certain that he had heard the hunting call of a wolf.

He went on. Overhead, in the black sky, the stars glittered like arrow-heads of white fire. But, under his moccasins, the prairie seemed blacker than the sky. It was dead, dark, motionless. Yet the darkness seemed to have movement in it, as of a furtive travelling which you could not see. Things walked!

At the foot of the bluff, Dusty Star stopped. If old Ahitopee were making medicine, it might be as well to avoid that side of the bluff. Those who went upon the Wolf Trail did not like to be disturbed. He listened very carefully. The huge quiet of the prairies seemed filled with thread-like sounds as from that stealthy travelling which you could not see. Only the medicine of Ahitopee was not audible. It seemed safe to go on.

But now he had the fancy that, towards the north, a shadowy shape kept pace with him as he advanced. When he stopped there was no shadow, but when he moved, it was there.

At the summit of the bluff, he sat down to wait. He did not know what he was waiting for. That did not matter. The prairies knew. They had the Great Wisdom; the Wisdom of the Wolves.

Suddenly, to the north, he saw a pair of glowing eyes that watched him less than a dozen yards away, as motionless as if suspended in the air.

Dusty Star did not move an eyelid. He was not frightened. But he knew now that things were beginning to happen, and it made him feel a little strange. And beyond the eyes, further to the east, a pale light glimmered, which he knew would be the twilight that goes before the moon.

By degrees, as the glimmer grew, Dusty Star saw a shape that gathered about the eyes. It crouched a little, like a coyote. It looked bigger than a fox. And then he became gradually aware as the light increased, that he and the eyes were not alone. He counted one, two, three, four more pairs of eyes with shadows darkening about them east, west, and south. And beyond them there was an outer circle of similar shadows in the likeness of prairie wolves.

The light grew stronger. The moon rose. Dusty Star found himself the centre of a circle of coyotes who sat motionless on their haunches as if waiting for some signal.

Then, from a neighbouring ridge, there broke, clear and ringing, the long voice of a wolf.

The coyotes stiffened with attention. Then, first one, and then another, lifted its head and began to bark. The barking became louder. By degrees, the separate voices began to blend together in a wild, unequal chorus. And now and then some hunched shape; upon an outer ring would become a voice to swell the clamour till it rang echoing from ridge to ridge.

More and more, as the sound drove in upon him, Dusty Star felt a strange sense take hold of him; and as each separate set of barks changed to the combined roar of the final squawl, his entire body shivered to the thrill.

He felt the creatures all about him now. And yet they were not strange. The coyote world, the fox world, the world of the wolves and of the other prairie folk, was closing in upon him in narrower and narrower circles, hemming him in with a roar of sound.

He did not know what the chorus meant, nor what wild impulse urged the coyotes to sing. Nor could he tell why he himself should feel so strangely a part of it all. In the moonlight everything was very clear. For prairie eyes, it was not likely to make mistakes as to what one saw. Yet suddenly Dusty Star stared as if his eyes were starting out of his head.

Right in front of him, with its back to the moon, a great form, larger than a coyote, seemed to have risen out of the ground. As he looked, the creature, lifting its head, let out a long melancholy howl.

Dusty Star held his breath. Could it be?—was it possible?—Kiopo at last?

He was too excited to wait in order to be sure. Springing to his feet, he darted forward with a cry.

The wolf leaped swiftly aside, and was gone.

The creature's disappearance seemed a signal. There was a general movement on the butte. The next moment dusky bodies melted soundlessly down its furrows into the grey vastness of the prairies, and Dusty Star found himself alone.

He was bitterly disappointed. Now, when it was too late, he knew that he done the wrong thing. All his wisdom of prairie-craft and wood-craft had left him in one fatal moment: he had moved at the very instant when he should have remained still. Now he would never know if he had been face to face with Kiopo or not. A sob rose in his throat; a mist swam over the moon: he could hardly see for tears, as he went recklessly down the hill.

CHAPTER VIII

HOW KIOPO CAME BACK

One night, when all the camp was in deep sleep, and nothing could be heard but the gentle flapping of the lodge-ears in the breeze, or the occasional bark of a hunting coyote, Dusty Star woke suddenly.

What was it? He raised himself on his elbow, and peered about in the glimmer of the dying fire. The tepee was full of shapes of things that were somehow stranger than the things themselves. There were dark, heaped-up objects which made companionable sounds in their noses, and could be explained. But there were others which did not explain themselves, that made no sound at all. Dusty Star looked at them suspiciously in case they might have moved.

As he looked, and listened, there came from the direction of Look-out Bluff a long-drawn, ringing, call. It was no coyote voice. It was deeper, more resonant in tone. Some peculiar quality in it thrilled Dusty Star to the very marrow of his bones. It was the very soul of a wolf that went walking through the wandering spaces of the night: one of the thirsty prairie voices that go hunting down the wind.

Again the cry came. This time it was louder, as if the creature were drawing nearer. The boy's pulses began to beat more wildly. Then there came a long silence, in which the lodge-ears ceased to flap and the wind itself seemed to have died away. Was it going to be nothing at all, Dusty Star asked himself—nothing but a bodiless voice that went by on a windy trail?

Hark, what was that? There was a breathing snuffing sound, as of some creature sniffing at the bottom of the tepee. Then, something scratched.

As Dusty Star left the buffalo-robes, and crept stealthily across the tepee in dreadful fear lest either of his parents should wake, his body burned like a flame.

With the utmost care he unfastened the calf-skin flap and passed out.

There was no moon, but the sky was deep with stars. In their clear-shining, he saw a wolf crouching on the ground.

Dusty Star did not take any risk by rashly stepping forward. He stood absolutely still, yet so anxious lest his wild hope should be vain, that he hardly dared to breathe.

He saw the wolf rise, depress its body slightly and then leap upon him. He felt the weight of the heavy body against his chest, struggled to keep his balance, and fell without a sound.

And then the night and the stars, and the whole world were blotted out by a great hairy wolf-body, and a tongue that licked and slobbered, and slobbered and licked.

Kiopo at last!

Dusty Star did not struggle. He knew if he attempted to rise, Kiopo would only knock him down again, at the risk of rousing the sleepers in the tepee. Even as it was, he dreaded lest his father might hear, and come out to see what was going on; for Kiopo, in his wild delight, could not content himself with action only, but must keep up a continual whining and growling, broken every now and then by smothered barks.

It was some time before Kiopo's excitement had cooled enough for him to let Dusty Star get up. Every time the boy seemed inclined to rise, the wolf, planting a fore-paw firmly upon his chest, bared his shining teeth, and growled. It was as much as if he said:

"I ran away from you once, little brother, because it was necessary, but now I am going to see that you don't escape from me!"

When Kiopo was calm enough to behave more reasonably, Dusty Star sat up. He put his arms round his neck, and began to talk to him in a low, gurgling flow of quaint Indian words. And indeed the words seemed to be sweet with the juice of sarvis berries and wild pears, and to have the wind in them over a thousand miles of prairie, and the wet sound of great waters, and syllables borrowed from beasts and birds since the beginning of the earth. If Kiopo did not understand the words in the very exact shape of them as they ran from Dusty Star's mouth, he had a sense of what he was trying to tell him, because he understood the great nature-language that is deeper than the dictionaries, and lies broad along the world.

Beyond a low whine occasionally, or a gurgle in his throat, Kiopo did not reply. Yet his very silence was an answer. His whole body gave it. His silence bulged with Himself.

CHAPTER IX

SITTING-ALWAYS SPEAKS HER MIND

The news of Kiopo's return ran swiftly through the camp. They spoke of it in the tepees as something to be reckoned with. It might mean evil, or it might mean good. Whether good or evil, it was very strange. As for the huskies, they had but one feeling about it: the wolf's return was bad. All that day, and the days that followed, Stickchi's eyes had a wicked glitter; and not a husky of them all but knew that mischief was brewing.

But what the huskies felt did not cause Kiopo any serious discomfort. He was a half-grown cub no longer. The long winter had made a wolf of him. His chest had deepened, his limbs lengthened. He was a creature to be feared. When Dusty Star went through the camp, Kiopo close at his heels, he had reason to be proud of his wolf. The boy held his head high, because of the great pride and gladness that was in his heart. Now that he had Kiopo once more, his heart soared like a hawk. The joy that was in him shone clear in his eyes. He gave a bold look into the faces of every one he met. But when he and Kiopo passed out on to the prairie, suspicious glances followed them, and watched keenly where they went.

Nothing happened that day, or the next; but upon the third day after Kiopo's return, Dusty Star became uneasy. He could not have definitely said what was the matter. But things were in the air. Something new was in the camp. It had not declared itself, but it was none the less there. Beneath the painted coverings of the tepees, he felt that the secret grew.

On the evening of the third day, just after sundown, he was returning from the prairie, after driving his father's ponies in for the night. The camp fires were burning brightly and in the deepening twilight dusky figures were passing to and fro. He noticed that round the tepee of Spotted Owl a small group of people had collected. Inside, a drum was beating softly and very slowly, as if some medicine ceremony were beginning. Dusty Star lingered a little to watch, and then passed on. When he reached the home tepee he found his supper ready. But after he had finished, he did not go immediately to bed as usual. Instead, he went out again into the camp.

The night had fallen now. It was cloudy and very dark. But the glow of the camp fires made a sort of twilight in the camp itself; a twilight that wandered as the fires rose or fell. While he stood intently on the watch, he saw a figure come out from the doorway of his grandmother's tepee. The figure stood quite still, as if it, too, were on the watch. It was muffled in a robe, from head to foot, so that its actual shape was hidden. Dusty Star was surprised. It was not his grandmother's habit to stir abroad after nightfall. She had grave misgivings in the dark. But if it were a late visitor why then was it so carefully covered?

The figure moved and glided away into the darkness. Dusty Star, keeping well within the deepest shadows, followed swiftly in the figure's track. It did not stop till it reached Little Owl's tepee. Dusty Star watched it enter, and then crept close to the back of the lodge. The soft beating of the drum was still audible, but soon after the entrance of the newcomer it ceased. Then a voice spoke.

Dusty Star, crouching close against the bottom of the tepee could hear every word distinctly. The speaker was Spotted Owl.

"The wolf has returned to Running Wolf's lodge," he said. "It is five moons now since he went away. He may have brought back much medicine with him. It may be good medicine. Lone Chief thinks it is a strong medicine—very good, perhaps, if we sent a war party against the Yellow Dogs. But he must be watched."

The voice ceased. Apparently, for the moment, Spotted Owl had nothing more to say.

Then another voice spoke.

"The wolf is always with the boy. They go out upon the prairies together. If the wolf has medicine, he shares it with the boy. The boy knows many things about the wolves."

Several other speakers expressed an opinion that it would be wise to advise Running Wolf to send the wolf away. It was clear that the general feeling of the meeting was that Kiopo should not be injured, and that if he were driven away, no one must attempt it but Running Wolf.

At this point another voice broke in which Dusty Star recognized only too well. The person was no other than Sitting-Always herself. She spoke quickly and with great earnestness.

"The wolf is bad," she said. "Nothing has gone well since he came to the camp. The boy also is bad. He and the wolf are always making medicine. That is why they go alone upon the prairies that they may make medicine together out of sight of the tepees. It will not be sufficient to drive the wolf away. As long as the boy is here, the wolf will come back. He is teaching the boy the wolf medicine. When the boy has learnt it fully, it will be a madness to send war parties against the Gros Ventres. If you destroy the wolf, you will destroy the medicine, and the boy will lose his power. He is Indian now, but there is something in him that is wolf. Either he will carry his medicine to our enemies, the Gros Ventres, or he will go back to the wolves. You must kill the wolf, even if you do not touch the boy. You must kill, kill, kill!"

As Sitting-Always finished her speech, her voice rose to a shrillness that was almost a shout. In the yellow desert of her face her sunken eyes glittered with passion. It was plain to all who saw her that she was very greatly moved. To the one person who heard, but did not see her, it was as if a poisoned arrow had plunged into his heart.

After she had ceased speaking, a low murmur of voices filled the tepee. The passionate words of the old squaw had roused the Indians to a feeling that something must be done. Spotted Owl's next speech showed this very clearly. He did not commit himself so far as to say that the wolf must be killed; but he allowed his hearers to draw their own conclusions. Once the wolf was out of the way, the boy could be dealt with as the tribe should decide. When Sitting-Always heard the concluding words of the speech, a look of evil triumph glimmered in her face.

Dusty Star did not wait to hear any more. Whatever plan his enemies might adopt, there was no time to lose. The secret was out now—the dark, unspoken thing which his sense had warned him was walking in the camp. As he crept away from the tepee, hatred, fear, and anger made his heart feel as if it would burst. Yet it was not so much for himself, as for Kiopo, that his passions were fully roused. He did not doubt that his father and mother would devise some means to protect him from any serious harm, as soon as they realized the threatened danger. But if Kiopo were the cause of that danger, his instinct warned him that neither of them would hesitate a moment to sacrifice the wolf. In all the vast world, he knew that the only friend Kiopo could rely on was himself.

When he got back to the tepee, he saw with alarm that Kiopo was not there. His mother scolded him for staying out so late. His father, already under his buffalo robe, muttered drowsily of a beating in the morning. Dusty Star had his own ideas connected with the morning. His brain was thick with the dust of a great plan. His mother's angry words were like fireflies that darted but did not sting.

Dusty Star went immediately to bed. His mother, having eased her mind, did likewise. Blue Wings and the father were already fast asleep. Very soon the only person still awake in the tepee was Dusty Star himself.

And the night deepened. Out there, in the awful hush of the prairies, you could almost hear the deepening of it from the roots of the camass flowers right up to the very roots of the stars!

In the camp itself only one sound was audible—the low persistent throbbing of a drum.

As the boy listened, the beating of his heart became another drumming; for his instinct told him that it was the medicine-making that would surely send Kiopo to his death.

It was impossible to stay longer in bed. Out there, in the night, things were happening. The evil thing that Sitting-Always had planned, was hatching. When it was fully hatched, Kiopo would be doomed. Dusty Star felt there was not any time to lose. If Kiopo did not return immediately, he might not come back till the dawn. And if he delayed till then, it might be too late to warn him. His enemies might wait for him in ambush and kill him as he returned.

Dusty Star made up his mind. If Kiopo did not come back to him, he must go out to find Kiopo; there was no other way.

He got up softly, took his bow and arrows, and a strip of pemmican that was handy, and passed stealthily out of the tepee.

The night was starlight. Dusty Star saw the world in a vast glimmer. It was the twilight of the stars. He paused a moment, embracing the camp in one swift, sweeping glance that missed out nothing that was important to be seen. All was one deep shadow in which the tepees were lesser shadows that stood up gaunt and black. Dusty Star was not afraid of the shadows. What he dreaded were eyes. You could see the shadows, but the eyes that might lurk in them you could not see. And the eyes you did not see might watch you as you went. He was very anxious. Why of all nights should Kiopo have chosen this one to be out? If they were to escape, it must be to-night. To-morrow it might be too late. Ah! What was that? Surely it was a man's form, black against the glimmer of the prairies! And it moved! It was coming nearer! To his horror Dusty Star saw another form, and then another, moving the direction of the tepee. He cast a fearful glance behind him. Again he distinguished moving figures. There was no mistaking it. A ring of Indians was closing in upon the tepee. He crept to the back of it, in the hope that he might not be seen, for a time, at least, till there was an opportunity to make a dash for freedom. As he crouched on the ground behind the tepee, a cold nose was thrust against his face. Kiopo!... Unknown to him, the wolf had returned after the tepee had been secured for the night, and had lain down to sleep against it.

Dusty Star shivered in an agony of fear. If they were discovered it seemed as if some terrible fate had ordered that Kiopo should return just when he had. The one lucky thing was that they were not inside the tepee. Yet even so, the chances of escape were small indeed with that ring of pitiless enemies steadily closing in.

Kiopo saw them too. More than that, his unfailing instinct warned him what the danger was. He gave a low, rumbling growl. Dusty Star, with his arm tightly about him, whispered to him to keep still. As he looked up, he could see the heads of the approaching Indians black against the stars. They were terribly close now.

Then he heard a slight noise at the front of the tepee, and knew that some one was trying to unfasten the calf-skin flap. He held his breath, dreading from moment to moment that they would be discovered. Kiopo had ceased to growl, because he had realized that absolute silence was necessary for their safety; but Dusty Star could feel how the wolf's heart was throbbing, while his whole body shivered as if ready to spring upon his foes at the slightest hint.

Suddenly it seemed to Dusty Star as if one of the nearer Indians bent forward to look more closely at the back of the tepee. If that were indeed so, they were discovered.

There was no time to make sure. An instant's delay might be fatal. He leapt to his feet and made a blind rush, calling to Kiopo as he did so.

The Indians were taken by surprise. Before they realized what had happened, both boy and wolf were clear of the enclosing ring.

The prairie! To reach that was Dusty Star's one hope. Once out upon that he would trust to his speed and the darkness of the night. He shot forward at a headlong pace, urged by a frenzied fear. Behind him he heard the swish and thud of racing moccasins. Also there were cries. The cries struck terror into him as much as the feet. And they were terribly close.

On he sped, Kiopo running at his side. The fact that they were together seemed to lend him extra speed. He knew without a doubt that they were running for their lives. Had not Sitting-Always cried "Kill! Kill!"?

It was fortunate that his constant going to and fro upon the prairie had made him completely familiar with the lie of the land. If he continued in the same direction as he was going, he knew that he would reach broken ground where it would be impossible to keep up the pace, and not risk a fall. He swerved to the north. To swerve was to lose ground, but he dared not take the risk.

The sound of moccasins drew nearer. It seemed plain that some, at least, of his pursuers had discovered the alteration in his course. With every muscle and nerve strained to the utmost, Dusty Star fled desperately on.

From the sound behind, he judged that the Indian who was gaining was in advance of his companions. Kiopo made the same judgment with even greater exactitude as to actual distance. For a moment or two, the wolf dropped a little behind. Before Dusty Star had grasped what was happening, there was a snarling growl, a noise as of a falling body, and the sound of the moccasins ceased. A second or two afterwards, Kiopo was again running at his side.

After that the sounds of pursuit died gradually away. But for a long time Dusty Star continued his flight. When he felt that he could run no further, he let himself sink to the ground, and lay for a long time, grasping for breath.

When at last his breathing became regular, he felt the dewy vastness of the prairie night cover him as with a robe. The darkness, the quiet, above all, the sense of immense relief after the danger escaped, lulled him, and he slept.

As dawn broke, he was on his feet, for he dared not risk remaining in the open during the day.

By that mysterious means through which the wild creatures convey ideas to each other, Dusty Star made it plain to Kiopo that they must go and hide. Kiopo understood hiding. Half his life long he had either been going into hiding, or coming out. Directly they came upon a deep gully with a thicket at the head of it, both the boy and the wolf knew they had found the place to lie in till the dark.

DUSTY STAR

BY OLAF BAKER

Author of "Shasta of the Wolves."

ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL BRANSOM

NEW YORKDODD, MEAD AND COMPANY1936

COPYRIGHT, 1922.By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

FIVE TIMES MORE THE MOTHER MADE THE LONG DOUBLE JOURNEY

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

DUSTY STAR

PART I

CHAPTER I

CARBOONA'S SECRET

CHAPTER II

WHY "DUSTY STAR" WAS

CHAPTER III

RUNNING WOLF MOVES

CHAPTER IV

KIOPO FINDS AN ENEMY

THE ARRIVAL OF KIOPO WAS NOW KNOWN TO EVERY HUSKY IN THE CAMP, AND EACH HUSKY HATED HIM FROM THE BOTTOM OF HIS HUSKY HEART

CHAPTER V

"SITTING-ALWAYS"

CHAPTER VI

THE MEDICINE-MAKING

CHAPTER VII

HOW THE WOLVES SANG

CHAPTER VIII

HOW KIOPO CAME BACK

CHAPTER IX

SITTING-ALWAYS SPEAKS HER MIND

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1936

COPYRIGHT, 1922.
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.