After this is over, the coward or clown is provided with a long, sharp stick, and he and his prompter take their places in the ring ready for performances. A woman as nearly nude as barbaric modesty will permit is placed in the center, squatting on the ground. Then some Indian intones a chant, which he sings alone, and the sport, such as it is, begins. At the bidding of the prompter, the coward makes a furious sally in one direction, and with his spear stabs the empty air. Then he dashes back in the opposite direction and slashes into the air again. Next he runs some other way and stabs again. Now perhaps he makes a feint to pierce the woman. Thus the prompter keeps him chasing backward and forward, spearing the thin air toward every point of the compass, or making passes at the woman, until nearly tired out, and the patience of the American spectators is exhausted, and they begin to think the whole affair will terminate in "mere dumb show." But finally, at a word from the prompter, the spearman makes a tremendous run at the woman and stabs her in the umbilicus. She falls over on the ground, quivering in every limb, and the blood jets forth in a purple stream. The Indians all rush around her quickly and hustle her away to another place, where they commence laying her out for the funeral pyre, but huddle around her so thickly all the while that the Americans cannot approach to see what is done. Thus they mystify matters and hold some powwow over her for a considerable space of time, when she somehow mysteriously revives, recovers her feet, goes away to her wigwam, encircled by a bevy of her companions, dons her robe, and appears in the circle as well as ever, despite that terrible spear-thrust. Men who have witnessed this performance tell me the first time they saw it they would have taken their oaths that the woman was stabbed unto death, so perfect was the illusion. Although this travesty of gladiatorial combat is intended merely for amusement, yet all the Indians, these stoics of the woods, gaze upon it with profound and passionless gravity. If they laugh at all it is only after it is all over, and at the mystification of the Americans. Referring to another phase of the same dance, as practiced in another division of the Pomo, Powers says: Their fashion of the spear dance is different from the Gallinomero. The man who is to be slain stands behind a screen of hazel boughs with his face visible through an aperture; and the spearman, after the usual protracted dashing about and making of feints, strikes him in the face through the hole in the screen. He is then carried off, revives, etc.[23]