bayed like a wolf in the night, keeping time with the tom-tom beat.
"Hah-yah-ah-ah! Hah"
Jennifer touched the bowed shoulder.
"Meewahsin, Son-of-Lightning," she said. "Very good."
Son-of-Lightning's bony knuckles dropped from the tuneless little drum. He twisted to meet the voice.
"Meewahsin?" he said, and showed all his tobacco-blacked teeth in the grin which he gave no one but Jennifer. "Aha, Tapwa?"
"Certainly," said Jennifer. "It is truly very good." She looked at Louisa. "Tell him it is time to go out and cut kindling," she said.
Louisa interpreted in the swift guttural mutters that seem to have no terminals. The old man raised himself by sections, and Jennifer pulled her coat from the passage-peg, stepping out with him into the crisp brilliance of the spring morning.
All the world was vividly, crystally new. Under the breath of the Chinook which came eager and warm from the Rockies the trees had sloughed their winter covering, standing in delicate grey tracery against the dazzling sky. In this atmosphere the houses over at Grey Wolf stood distinct, each one, with smoke feathering straightly from the chimneys. Jennifer could see the glint of beaded moccasins on a man by the hotel door. She could catch the crack of a quirt as Kennedy went up the street on the piebald barrack pony. Snowbirds were calling gladly down the lake where the ice was thinning; and against the clearing fences and the heaps of melting snow sunshine was splintering its lances gaily. All about the feet of Spring moved; growing nearer, warmer. The air was full of promise; of life, of things to be and do, and Jennifer's blood ran riot with the joy of it as she thrust open the door of Son-of-Lightning's shack.
If the world outside was resurrection that shack most surely was the grave. But its desolation of sacking-bunk, ragged blankets, old lumber, and almost audible smell troubled her less this morning. The day was too boisterously glad. Besides, Son-of-Lightning loved it. He trod
