“I?” and there was twilight in Rain Walker’s eyes as he looked upon the questioner. “I shot an arrow into the air. It did not come back, so I am always looking for it.” And the questioner smiled and went on walking; for no arrow rises that does not fall. A child knows that. And the people said: “It is all because Mad Buffalo, the Ponca, took his squaw. He took her, and she went. It was after the summer’s feasting and talking together that she went. Rain Walker is not forgetting.” And Rain Walker sat much alone; he sat much alone making strange songs not pleasant to hear. And as he made songs he made weapons. He fashioned him a _man-de-hi_, which is a long spear, tipped with sharp flint; and he sang. He wrought a _za-zi-man-di_, which is a great bow; and sang all the time. They were hate songs that he sang; they snarled. He shaped many arrows; he headed them with sharp flints and tipped them with the feathers of the hawk; and all the time he sang. He made a _we-ak-ga-di_, which is an ugly club. He sang to himself and to the weapons that he made. To the harsh, snarling airs he wrought the weapons. The songs went into them, and they looked like things that might hate much. And one drew near who was walking. “Why do you make war things?” said he. “I?” and Rain Walker threw himself upon his stomach, writhing toward the questioner like a big snake. “I am a rattlesnake,” he said, “_hiss-ss-ss-s!_ go away! I sting!” And the man went, for it is not good to see a man act like a snake. And one night the weapons were finished. All that night the people heard the voice of Rain Walker singing. They said: “Those are the songs of one who wishes to go on the warpath!” And in the morning Rain Walker came out of his lodge. The squaws trembled to see him; and the men wondered. For he had wept and his eyes were pale. Well did the men know that he who weeps in hate is not a child. And Rain Walker raised a hoarse voice into the morning stillness before all the people: “Where is my woman—she who cooked for me and made my lodge pleasant? Tell me; for I walk there that the crows may eat me!” The people shivered as though his voice were the breath of the first frost. “You need not make words, my kinsmen; I know. I walk there and the crows shall eat me.” He went forth from the door of his lodge and came to the place where the head chief lived among the Hungas. He raised the door flap. “A-ho!” said he, for the chief was within eating. “I, Rain Walker, stand before you. I have words to give.” “Speak,” said the chief. “I am wronged. I wish war! I wish to see the Poncas destroyed!” The head chief gazed long into the tear-washed eyes of Rain Walker, and he said: “It is a big thing to take that trail. It means the wailing of women; it means hunger; it means the crying of _zhinga zhingas_ for fathers that lie in lonesome places and never ride back. It is a hard path to take. I will think.”