“There was a man named Cross Bull who lived over north among the Blood Indians. He went alone to war. He had bad luck and started home empty-handed. One evening, after many days of hard traveling, he came to a river valley and went into camp in a grove of cotton wood trees. He had no food; he was tired and hungry. So he built a fire close to a log and lay down to sleep. In the night he was wakened by something coming through the underbrush. He had his back towards it. He dared not turn his head to look. He thought it might be a ghost. He heard it go into a tree, so he lay very still; he did not even move. Finally he raised his head and looked. In the forks of a big tree sat a ghost. A long white robe covered its bones. Whenever it swung its legs, the bones rattled. Cross Bull began to pray. He begged it to go away, saying: ‘I am tired and want to rest.’ “But the ghost paid no attention. It stared at him from hollow eyes; it whistled and rattled its bones. Cross Bull prayed again: “‘O ghost, be kind. Go away and leave me alone. I am poor and have bad luck. I am tired and want to rest.’ “Four times Cross Bull made this prayer. But the ghost paid no attention; it kept on whistling and swinging its legs. Then Cross Bull got angry. He took his bow and arrow and shot at the ghost. He saw an owl fly from the tree, and heard it cry in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt me so badly, you hurt me so badly.’ (Screech owl.) “Cross Bull was so frightened he ran away in the dark. The ghost kept following; for whenever he stopped he heard it crying the same thing, over and over in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt me so badly, you hurt me so badly.’ “Cross Bull left the valley. He did not stop running until he was far out on the plains. Then it was daylight and the ghost left him. But he kept on running until he reached the Blood camp. Next night Cross Bull died. And that is the end of my story-telling.” By this time it was late in the night and my Indian friends went to bed. I sat alone by the camp-fire. The moon was now in the west; and the handle of the Great Dipper, that wonderful clock of the north sky, pointed downward to the horizon. Then I climbed the mountain side in the bright moonlight, to look out over the forests and the great plains stretching eastward. On the other side of the valley were mountains, with shining glaciers and snowfields. The aurora formed an arch of light across the north sky; streamers mounting to the zenith in yellow and yellowish red, and sometimes greenish white. They swayed backward and forward, now strong, now faint, until they faded and a luminous veil covered the sky, through which a bright star shone. There was no wind; and everywhere an impressive stillness, broken only by the river in the valley, and the solemn notes of the owl, “a haunting spirit.” CHAPTER XV A FRONTIER DANCE