He put a ragged sleeve across his eyes to shut out the sight. It brought a picture he longed to forget--the terrible picture of his downfall: It was a spring day, and the Uncapapas, to make ready for battle, were dancing the great sun-dance. He was the chief Moon Dog then, haughty as any, brave as the next, given to warfare and the shedding of blood. In the great tent, it was he who led. He was naked, save for a loin-cloth. Coup-sticks were braided in his hair. Eagle feathers trailed from his scalp-lock. The skin of his body was hidden beneath devices. He signified a wish to suffer wounding, to have willow wands run through the flesh of his back. Standing Buffalo was dancing beside him. And it was that warrior's knife which leaped from its beaded sheath to do the cutting. And then the wounds weakened the chief Moon Dog. The wands tore his flesh past all power to endure. And he knew nothing. But when the squaws brought him to life again, they told him that, like a squaw, he had pleaded for mercy--and wept! For this he was branded, spat upon, cast out, and cursed. For this he had gone hungry, scoured kettles, and herded with the dogs. David Bond had come, telling him of One Who was bruised, reviled, and nailed to a tree. That One was the God of the white man. Broken in spirit, The Squaw had accepted Him. Yet--what had the new God done for him? Was his work lighter? No! Was the food not the cast-off's still, fouled by the touch and the tongues of others and by the dirt of the pen? Yes. If the new God was good, _why had He not saved the evangelist_? The soul of Squaw Charley tottered. Hark! Overhead, a high-sailing crane bugled. But to the outcast, the lonely night-cry seemed supernatural, a hail from one of the departed! He uncovered his eyes and looked up. Above him stretched the pale, shining ribbon of the Milky Way. Again the crane sounded its rousing, guttural cry. He shook himself, as if to free his body from a chain. Once more he took out flint and steel and lit the bit of grapevine. Then, he sank to the prairie, where he crossed his legs like a brave. Now, with deep breath, he drew upon the stem. His nostrils filled, he tipped back his head; and from them, upward to the path, sent wreath upon wreath of adoring smoke. CHAPTER XXVII SIMON PLAYS A PART One morning in early July, Matthews came swaggering into the post barber-shop, his air that of a man who is mightily pleased with himself. "Bill," said he, as he flung off blouse and hat, "wish you'd mow down this stubble of mine." The barber set about stropping a razor. "Don't want your mane trimmed?" he inquired. "Strikes me--eh--it's pretty long." The interpreter loosened the collar of his shirt and took a chair. "Never you mind about my mane," he answered. "It's just as long's I want it. You turn loose on my chin." He leaned back to elevate a pair of bright-topped boots.