I saw by the blue glow of the falling embers that which I had expected to see—a long, ugly gash running across his scalp. It was not yet quite healed. In the morning, as the storm had died in the night, we saddled up. “You take the mule and go on ahead,” I said; “I’ll probably catch up with you by noon.” The man obeyed. I did not expect to catch up with him, but along about noon I overtook him. “You seem determined to travel my way,” I said. He stared at me for some time, and then said quietly: “I’m not a coward just because I’m going to hang.” And we rode on together. The next morning when we had saddled up, I said: “_Narcisse_, here is one of my six-shooters and some ammunition. There is the grub. If you travel west far enough, you will come at last to the gold country. Ever think of going to the gold country?” The man gasped and placed his hand to his head. “When did I have my cap off?” said he. “You have a good mule there,” continued I, evading his question. “You have grub, a gun and ammunition. Why don’t you go west?” “Why are you saying that?” he said. “Because,” I answered, “because I have seen _both scars_!” A light came into his eyes. “And you?” he questioned. “I?” said I; “well _I_, while conducting a prisoner southward, was attacked by Indians. The prisoner was killed while defending me with unusual bravery. I lost all my grub, one gun, some ammunition and a mule. I barely escaped with my life, and rode like the very devil to get to the next post. _Go!_” I pointed west. The man slowly fastened the grub sack on his mule, mounted, gave me a look which I have never forgotten, and rode west. I have never seen him since. As for me, I got into the next post that evening with a worn-out horse and a tale of calamity. V THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER SHE was only a timid little Omaha maiden with a pair of pensive eyes, dark like the thunder clouds, and like them, fraught with a potential fire that seemed ever about to spend its fury in the weakness of tears. She passed her childhood hours beside the singing streams and in the lonesome places where the silence lingered. The sunrise and the sunset found her where the wild flowers clustered, or where the noises of the nesting birds disturbed the stillness of the thickets. For hers was a timorous soul, and the dumb kindness of the green things was sweet to her. So, as she grew in this wise toward that mysterious time when the immaturity of the girl bursts into the magic of the woman, her people said: “She talks with the things that talk not; she plays with the wind that sleeps and moans in the shadowy place.” And that is why they named her Shadow Flower.