“The crier’s words now cease.  A lull holds the village breathless.  Then hurrying feet tear along, swish, swish, through the tall grass.  Sobbing women hasten toward the trialway.  The muffled groan of the round camp-ground is unbearable.  With my face hid in the folds of my blanket, I run with the crowd toward the open place in the outer circle of our village.  In a moment the two long files of solemn-faced people mark the path of the public trial.  Ah!  I see strong men trying to lead the lassoed pony, pitching and rearing, with white foam flying from his mouth.  I choke with pain as I recognize my handsome lover desolately alone, striding with set face toward the lassoed pony.  ’Do not fall!  Choose life and me!’ I cry in my breast, but over my lips I hold my thick blanket.

“In an instant he has leaped astride the frightened beast, and the men have let go their hold.  Like an arrow sprung from a strong bow, the pony, with extended nostrils, plunges halfway to the centre tepee.  With all his might the rider draws the strong reins in.  The pony halts with wooden legs.  The rider is thrown forward by force, but does not fall.  Now the maddened creature pitches, with flying heels.  The line of men and women sways outward.  Now it is back in place, safe from the kicking, snorting thing.

“The pony is fierce, with its large black eyes bulging out of their sockets.  With humped back and nose to the ground, it leaps into the air.  I shut my eyes.  I can not see him fall.

“A loud shout goes up from the hoarse throats of men and women.  I look.  So!  The wild horse is conquered.  My lover dismounts at the doorway of the centre wigwam.  The pony, wet with sweat and shaking with exhaustion, stands like a guilty dog at his master’s side.  Here at the entranceway of the tepee sit the bereaved father, mother, and sister.  The old warrior father rises.  Stepping forward two long strides, he grasps the hand of the murderer of his only son.  Holding it so the people can see, he cries, with compassionate voice, ‘My son!’ A murmur of surprise sweeps like a puff of sudden wind along the lines.

“The mother, with swollen eyes, with her hair cut square with her shoulders, now rises.  Hurrying to the young man, she takes his right hand.  ‘My son!’ she greets him.  But on the second word her voice shook, and she turned away in sobs.

“The young people rivet their eyes upon the young woman.  She does not stir.  With bowed head, she sits motionless.  The old warrior speaks to her.  ’Shake hands with the young brave, my little daughter.  He was your brother’s friend for many years.  Now he must be both friend and brother to you,’

“Hereupon the girl rises.  Slowly reaching out her slender hand, she cries, with twitching lips, ‘My brother!’ The trial ends.”

“Grandmother!” exploded the girl on the bed of sweet-grass.  “Is this true?”

“Tosh!” answered the grandmother, with a warmth in her voice.  “It is all true.  During the fifteen winters of our wedded life many ponies passed from our hands, but this little winner, Ohiyesa, was a constant member of our family.  At length, on that sad day your grandfather died, Ohiyesa was killed at the grave.”