University of Virginia Library

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Some days afterward at sunset an Omaha maiden stood upon a hill near her village. With hand at brow she peered into the blue distance. Suddenly a cry of delight trembled on her lips. A cloud

of dust had grown far away upon the verge of a hill, slowly resolving itself into a long line of warriors approaching at a gallop. The column drew nearer. The face of the watching maiden grew darker with anxiety as a brilliant cloud darkens when the twilight falls. She beheld the masterful form of Big Axe, mounted upon a black pony, riding in advance of the band; yet her face darkened. Her brows lowered with the strain of her intense gaze. Was it a squaw who rode upon a pony white as a summer cloud beside her warrior? A shout went up from the village below. The speed of the ponies was increased to a fast gallop; the band swept up the valley.

A strange, low cry fell from the lips of the maiden; a stifled cry like that of a sleeping brave who feels the blade of a treacherous foeman at his heart.

In the village was the sound of many glad voices; but in the darkness of the hill above, a frail form buried its face in the dry bunch grass and uttered a moan that no one heard.