So the next time a bird was sent upon the search.  The Pigeon Hawk went forth, confident that she should be successful.  But she was in such a hurry and flew so fast that she saw nothing, and she too returned without that for which she sought.  Then the White Heron begged that he might be allowed to try.  “For,” said he, “you all know how slowly I fly, and how careful I am to see everything.”

“Yes, especially if it be something good to eat,” chirped the saucy Jay, “do not trust him, birds, he is too greedy.”

Yet the Heron was allowed to go.  He flapped away, slowly and sedately, and the Council sat down to await his return.  But the Heron had not gone far when he came to a field of luscious wild beans; and he stopped to take a mouthful or two.  He ate, and he ate, and he ate, the greedy fellow! until he could eat no more.  And then he was sleepy, so that he slept and slept and slept.  And when he awoke he was so hungry that he fell to eating again, while the Council waited and wondered and waited.  At last they grew impatient and began to suspect that the Jay had been right, which was indeed the case.  They decided to wait no longer for the Heron, who did not return.  Then the Crow stepped forward and said, “Let me go, I pray you, for I think I know where the scalp may be found; not in the nest of a bird, not in the den of any animal, not in the watery haunt of a fish.  For all the creatures of earth, air, and water are friends of the Good Hunter.  It is men who are most cruel to men:  therefore in the tents of men must we look for the missing scalp.  Let me go to seek it there, for men are used to see me flying near and will not suspect why I come.”

The Crow flew forth upon his errand, and before long came to the wigwam where lived the warrior who had slain the Good Hunter.  And sure enough, there, outside the tent, was the scalp of the Good Hunter, stretched on a pole to dry.  The Crow flew near, and the warrior saw him, but thought nothing of it, for he was used to seeing crows about the camp.  Presently when no one was looking the skillful thief managed to steal the scalp, and away he flew with it to the Council in the forest.  Great was the rejoicing of the birds and beasts when they saw that the Crow had been successful, and they said more kind things to him than he had heard for many moons.  At once they put the scalp upon the Good Hunter’s head, but it had grown so dry in the smoke of the warrior’s wigwam that it would not fit.  Here was a new trouble.  What was to be done to make the scalp soft and flexible once more?  The animals did their best, but their efforts were of no avail.

Once more the great Eagle came forward and bade them listen.

“My children,” he said, “my wings are never furled.  Night and day for hundreds of years the dews of heaven have been collecting upon my back as I sit on my throne above the clouds.  Perhaps this dew may have a healing power such as no earthly fountain holds.  We will see.”