When a few rains swept at last down upon the vale, it was too late for the crops.  Only the few stores kept in reserve and the proceeds of the hunt could save the tribe from a famine.  Women and children put on red wristbands to comfort their hearts in the prospective distress, for a winter without vegetable supplies was until then an unknown disaster.  Say Koitza also placed strips of red buckskin around her arms.  Ostensibly she mourned for her tribe; in reality it was to relieve her heart from the reproaches of her own conscience.

But when winter set in and the fever had not put in its appearance, her mind gradually changed.  She lost all fear of discovery, and finally felt proud of what she had done.  Had she not preserved herself for her own husband, for her children?  Instead of performing a crime, it was a meritorious act.  Shotaye encouraged her in such thoughts.  To her it was less the recovery of her friend than the blow dealt the Koshare, particularly her former husband, that excited her satisfaction and tickled her pride.

Say thus felt happy and at rest, but that fatal interview with her father suddenly dispelled all her fond dreams.  The old man’s revelations annihilated everything at one fell blow.  No hope was left; her life was gone, her doom sealed.  As if lightning had struck her she lay down by the hearth, motionless, for a long while.  She heard nothing; she stared vacantly; her thoughts came and went like nebulous phantoms.  At last somebody entered the outer room, but the woman noticed him not.  Three times the new-comer called her name; she gave no reply.  At the fourth call, “Koitza!” she started at last, and faintly answered,—­

“Opona.”

Zashue, her husband, entered the kitchen and good-naturedly inquired,—­

“Are you ill?”

She raised herself hastily and replied,—­

“No; but I was asleep.”

“The sun is resting on the western mountains,” said Zashue; “give me something to eat, I am tired.”

She stirred the fire, and when dry brush flamed over the hearth she placed the stew-pot on it.  The remainder of the cornmeal she stirred with water, and began to mix cakes in the usual way.  Her husband watched her pleasantly.

Zashue was indeed a good-looking Indian.  Lithe and of a fair height, with black hair and large bright eyes, he appeared the picture of vigour and mirth.  He chatted with the utmost nonchalance, telling his wife about the insignificant happenings of the day, the prospects of the crops, what such and such a one had said to him, and what he had told the other in return.  It was innocent gossip, intimate chat, such as a contented husband may tell a wife in whom he places entire confidence.  How happy she felt at the harmless chatter, and yet how intensely miserable.  His inquiry, “Are you ill?” rang in her ears with a sickening clang, like some overwhelming reproach.  Why, oh why, had she not spoken to him in time?  He was so good to her.  Now it was too late; and beside, why anticipate the fatal hour when he must know all?  Why not improve the few moments of respite granted ere death came?