The Factor crept carefully out of the Fort and down to the river.  The croaking had ceased, but he stretched out in the long grass and waited.  The air seemed a chilly balm, and the earth, after the heat of the day, now and again breathed soothingly against him.  The Factor, gathered into the rhythm of it all, dozed off, with his head upon his arm, and slept.

Fifty yards away, head resting on knees, and with his back to John Fox, Snettishane likewise slept, gently conquered by the quietude of the night.  An hour slipped by and then he awoke, and, without lifting his head, set the night vibrating with the hoarse gutturals of the raven call.

The Factor roused, not with the abrupt start of civilized man, but with the swift and comprehensive glide from sleep to waking of the savage.  In the night-light he made out a dark object in the midst of the grass and brought his gun to bear upon it.  A second croak began to rise, and he pulled the trigger.  The crickets ceased from their sing-song chant, the wildfowl from their squabbling, and the raven croak broke midmost and died away in gasping silence.

John Fox ran to the spot and reached for the thing he had killed, but his fingers closed on a coarse mop of hair and he turned Snettishane’s face upward to the starlight.  He knew how a shotgun scattered at fifty yards, and he knew that he had peppered Snettishane across the shoulders and in the small of the back.  And Snettishane knew that he knew, but neither referred to it.

“What dost thou here?” the Factor demanded.  “It were time old bones should be in bed.”

But Snettishane was stately in spite of the bird-shot burning under his skin.

“Old bones will not sleep,” he said solemnly.  “I weep for my daughter, for my daughter Lit-lit, who liveth and who yet is dead, and who goeth without doubt to the white man’s hell.”

“Weep henceforth on the far bank, beyond ear-shot of the Fort,” said John Fox, turning on his heel, “for the noise of thy weeping is exceeding great and will not let one sleep of nights.”

“My heart is sore,” Snettishane answered, “and my days and nights be black with sorrow.”

“As the raven is black,” said John Fox.

“As the raven is black,” Snettishane said.

Never again was the voice of the raven heard by the river bank.  Lit-lit grows matronly day by day and is very happy.  Also, there are sisters to the sons of John Fox’s first wife who lies buried in a tree.  Old Snettishane is no longer a visitor at the Fort, and spends long hours raising a thin, aged voice against the filial ingratitude of children in general and of his daughter Lit-lit in particular.  His declining years are embittered by the knowledge that he was cheated, and even John Fox has withdrawn the assertion that the price for Lit-lit was too much by ten blankets and a gun.

BATARD