"I have followed upon the trail of my daughter, thinking it was in your heart to meet her here and carry her to her ruin in the land of the white man. With this blade I would have killed you--for all men die--would have followed and killed you in the land of your people. But now I know that your heart is good. I have broken the knife. "You will keep the hilt, and when you are in trouble, in need, in want of a friend, you will send me this hilt, and I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, will come to you." Her eyes rolled upward as though seeking among the tiny, far-winking stars the words of some half-forgotten ritual, and her voice rose in a weird, hesitating chant: "Through the snows of Winter, Through the heat of Summer, Across high Mountains, Over broad Waters, Braving lean Want, Scorning fat Plenty, Nor turning aside From the fang of Wolf, From the forked arrows of Lightning, From the mighty voice of Thunder, From the hot breath of Fire, From the rush of Waters, From the sting of Frost. Nor lingering to the call of Love, Nor heeding the words of Hate. In the face of Sickness, In defiance of Death Will I come That you may know I am your Friend. Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World, And sit upon the High Places of the Great World, This is my Vow! Should my feet lag upon the Trail, Should my heart turn to Water, Should I forget-- So that in the time of my friend's need I answer not his call; Then, upon my head--upon the heads of my children--and their children Shall descend the Curse--the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah! The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!" The quavering chant ceased, and the undimmed old eyes looked again into the face of the man. "And because you are good," she went on, "and because you have heard the vow, when this broken blade comes to your hand you will know that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, in the last extremity of her need, is calling you. "And because you are strong and brave and have the good eye--you will come. And no people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent you. I have spoken." Bill Carmody listened in awed silence until the old woman finished. "I, whom you choose to regard as the one good white man," he replied with a dignity matching her own, "will one day prove my friendship. Upon sight of the fragment of blade I will come. "No people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent me--and one day you will know that my words are true." He raised his hand and, gazing upward, repeated the words of the strange chant. At their conclusion he gazed steadily into the face of the old squaw. "This is _the promise_," he said gravely. "I have spoken." CHAPTER XXXIV THE NEW BOSS