OVER the blazing camp-fires, when the wind. moaned eerily through the thickets of juniper and fir, they spoke of it in the Indian tongue.the strange lake to the southward whose waters never rest. And Nawa, the medicine-man, who had lived such countless moons that not even the oldest brave in the tribe could remember a time when Nawa was not old, declared that, if only you arrived at the right time, on the right night, you would see the buffaloes rise out of the middle of the lake and come crowding to the shore; for there, he said, was the sacred spot where the buffaloes began. It was not only Nawa who declared that the buffaloes had their beginnings under water, and were born in the depths of the lake. The Indian legend, far older even than Nawa himself, said the same thing, and Nawa was only the voice that kept the legend walking on two feet.

And often in the winter, when the wind drove with a roar over the prairies and came thundering up the creek, making the tepees shudder and strain, Little Wolf would listen to it and think it was like the stampede of the buffaloes. And then he would snuggle warmly under the buffalorobe that was his blanket, and be thankful for the shelter of the tepee. And sometimes he would go very far down the shadow-ways of thick sleep, and would meet the buffaloes as they came up from the lake, with the water shining on their shaggy coats and their black horns gleaming in the moon. And the buffaloes would begin by being very terrible, and shaking their great heads.

at him as if they fully intended to make a finish of him there and then. But afterward they would come close up to him, and smell him, and change their minds, and be companionable after all.

Little Wolf was only ten years old, but he could run faster than any other Indian boy in the tribe, and the wildest pony was not too wild for him to catch and ride. But the great thing about him was that he had no fear. He knew that an angry bull bison would gore you to death, and that if the prairie-wolves ran you down, there would be nothing left of you but your bones. Also, he was well aware that if you fell into the hands of the terrible Assiniboins, they would kill you and scalp you as neatly as could be. Yet none of these things terrified him. Only, being very wise for his age, he had a clear understanding that, for the present, it was better to keep out of their

way.

But of all the thoughts that ran this way and that in his quick Indian brain, the one which galloped the hardest was the thought of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes began. And as the days lengthened and the spring began to be a thing that you could smell on the warm blowing air, the thought grew bigger and bigger in Little Wolf's brain. At last it was so very big that Little Wolf could n't bear it any longer; and so, one morning, very early, before the village was astir, he crept out of the tepee as noiselessly as his namesake, and stole along below the junipers and tall firs till he came to the spot where the ponies were hobbled.

The dawn was just beginning to break, and in the gray light the ponies looked like dark blotches along the creek; but Little Wolf's eyes were very sharp, and soon he had singled out his own pony, because it had a white fore foot, and a white patch on its left side. When he spoke, calling softly, the animal whinnied in answer, and allowed himself to be caught. Little Wolf unhobbled him, slipped on the bridle, which he had brought with him, and leaped lightly upon his back. A few minutes afterward, horse and rider had left the camp behind them, and were out upon the prairie, going due south.

When the sun rose, they were already far upon their way. Little Wolf swept his piercing gaze round the immense horizon, lest there should be any danger, moving or in ambush, which might. interrupt his journey, or make him alter his course. Far off, so far as to be just on the edge of his sight, there was a dim spot on the yellowish gray of the prairie. Little Wolf reined in his pony to watch if it moved. If it did, it crept so slowly as to seem absolutely still. He decided that it was a herd of antelope feeding, and that there was nothing to fear.

On he went, hour after hour, never ceasing to watch. The prairie-grouse got up almost under his pony's feet. The larks and savanna-sparrows filled the air with their singing, and everywhere the wild roses were in bloom. It seemed as if nothing but peace would ever find its way among these singing-birds and flowers; yet Little Wolf knew well that the Assiniboins could come creeping along the hollows of the prairie, like wolves, and that there is no moment more dangerous than the time when there is no hint of danger.

All this time he had not seen a single buffalo, but he told himself that this was because the herds had taken some other way, and that he would probably not see any until he was near the lake. He lost sight of the shadowy spot he had seen so far away. If he had known that it was a party of Assiniboins on the war-path, he might have thought twice about continuing to the lake, and would probably have returned along his trail to give warning to his tribe. But his head was too full of the singing of the birds and of the breath of the roses, and, above all, of the great thought of the buffaloes, fighting below the lake.

It was late in the afternoon when, at last, he sighted the lake. It lay, a gray sheet with a glint of silver, glimmering under the sun. He looked eagerly on all sides to see if there were any signs of buffaloes, but far and wide the prairies lay utterly deserted, very warm and still in the white shimmer of the air. As he approached nearer, however, he saw trails, many trails, all going in

one direction and leading toward the lake. Antelope and coyote, wolf and buffalo; all these had left traces behind them as they went to the water and returned. But it was the buffalo trails which were most numerous and most marked, and which Little Wolf noted above all the others.

When he was quite close to the lake he dismounted, and, hobbling his pony, turned him adrift to graze. Then he himself lay down behind some tussocks of prairie-grass, above the low bank at the edge of the lake, and waited. From this position he could overlook the lake, without being seen. He gazed far over its glittering expanse, very still just now under the strong beams of the sun. It was disappointingly still. Scarcely a ripple broke upon the shore. You could not possibly imagine that the buffaloes were struggling underneath. Little Wolf asked himself where was the movement and the mysterious murmur of which Nawa had spoken? But, being of Indian blood, he had no impatience. He could afford to wait and listen for whole hours, if need be.

The time went on. Slowly the sun dipped westward, and the shadows of the grass grew longer. Yet still the lake kept its outward stillness, and nothing happened. At last the sun reached the horizon, lay there a few moments, a great ball of flame, and then sank out of sight. Twilight fell, and all over the vast wilderness crept peculiar silence like a wild creature stealing from its lair, while far in the west there lingered long the strange orange light that belongs to the prairie skies alone when the sun is down, and the night winds sigh along the grass. And whether it was the sighing of the wind or not, Little Wolf could not tell, but there came to him along the margin of the lake a strange, low murmur that died away and rose again. As the night deepened, it grew clearer, and then he was certain that it was not the wind, but came from the center of the lake. For hours he lay and listened, but the mysterious murmur never ceased. Sometimes it was a little louder; sometimes a little softer; but always it was plain to hear-a wonderful and terrible thing in the silence of the night. And as Little Wolf lay watching under the stars, the words of Nawa kept singing in his head:

Do you
hear the noise that never ceases?
It is the Buffaloes fighting far below.
They are fighting to get out upon the prairie.
They are born below the Water, but are fighting

for the Air,

In the great lake in the Southland where the Buffaloes begin!"

Suddenly, Little Wolf lifted himself up. He could n't tell whether he had been asleep or not,