It was the moon when leaves were falling,for Napa had finished painting them for their dance with the North wind.Just over the ragged mountain range the big moon hung in an almost starless sky,and in shadowy outline every peak lay upon the plain like a giant pat-tern.Slowly the light spread and as slowly the shadows stole away until the October moon looked down on the great Indian camp--a hun-dred lodges,each as perfect in design as the tusks of a young silver-tip,and all looking ghostly white in the still of the autumn night.
Back from the camp,keeping within the ever-moving shadows,a buffalo-wolf skulked to a hill overlooking the scene,where he stopped to look and listen,his body silhouetted against the sky.A dog howled occasionally,and the weird sound of a tom-tom accompanying the voice of a singer in the Indian village reached the wolf's ears,but caused him no alarm;for not until a great herd of ponies,under the eyes of the night-herder,drifted too close,did he steal away.
Near the centre of the camp was the big painted lodge of War Eagle,the medicine-man,and inside had gathered his grandchildren,to whom he was telling the stories of the creation and of the strange doings of Napa,the creator.
Being a friend of the old historian,I entered un-hindered,and with the children listened until the hour grew late,and on the lodge-wall the dying fire made warning shadows dance.
