“Ok-wa-ho felt this to be an insult.  It was a taunt on his bravery.  He squared his boyish shoulders, and, lifting his narrow chin, flung back the answer, ‘I, too, can use both ends, the edge as well as the pipe.’  The great chief laughed.  ’That is right, Little Brother, and some day the tribe will ask you to show them how well you can use the edge.  I shall not always be victor; some day I shall fall, and my enemy will place his foot on my throat and voice the war cry of victory, just as I have done these many days.  Hast thou sat among the wise men of our people long enough to learn what thou must do then—­when the enemy laughs over my body?’

“‘Yes,’ replied the boy, ’I am thy nearest of kin.  Indian law demands that I alone must avenge thy death.  Thy murderer must die, and die by no hand but mine.  It is the law.’

“‘It is the law,’ echoed the chief.  ’I can trust you to carry it out, eh, Little Brother?’

“‘You can trust me, no matter how great a giant thy enemy may be,’ answered the boy.

“‘Thy words are as thy name,’ smiled the chief.  ’Thou art indeed worthy of thy eagle plume.  Thou art a true Ok-wa-ho.’  Then placing his scalping knife in its sheath at his belt he lifted his palm to his lips, a long, strange, quivering yell rent the forest trails—­a yell of defiance, of mastery, of challenge; his feet were upon the warpath once more.

“That night, while the campfires yet glowed and flickered, painting the forest with black shadows, against which curled the smoke from many pipe bowls, a long, strange, haunting note came faintly down on the wings of the water—­the dark river whispering past bore on its deep currents the awful sound of the Death Cry.

“‘Some mighty one has fallen,’ said the old men.  ’The victor is voicing his triumph from far upstream.’  Then as the hours slipped by, a runner came up the forest trail, chanting the solemn song of the departed.  As he neared the campfires he ceased his song, and in its place gave once again the curdling horror of the Death Cry.

“‘Who is the victor?  Who the fallen brave?’ cried the old men.

“’Thy chief this hour hunts buffalo in the happy hunting grounds, while his enemy, Black Star, of the Bear Clan, sings the war song of the Great Unconquered,’ replied the runner.

“‘Ah, ha!’ replied the old men.  ’Ok-wa-ho here is next of kin, but this stripling boy is too young, too small, to face and fight Black Star.  But the law is that no other hand but his may avenge his brother’s death.  So our great dead chief must sleep—­sleep while his murderer sings and taunts us with his freedom.’

“‘Not so!’ cried the young Ok-wa-ho.  ’I shall face Black Star.  I shall obey the law of my people.  My hand is small but strong, my aim is sure, my heart is brave, and my vengeance will be swift.’