The old Indian was sitting on the snow. It was Koskoosh，former chief of his tribe. Now， all he could do was sit andlisten to the others. His eyes were old. He could not see，but his ears were wide open to every sound.
“Aha.” That was the sound of his daughter， Sit-cum-toha.
She was beating the dogs， trying to make them standin front of the snow sleds. He was forgotten by her， andby the others， too. They had to look for new huntinggrounds. The long， snowy ride waited. The days of thenorthlands were growing short. The tribe could not waitfor death. Koskoosh was dying.
The stiff， crackling noises of frozen animal skins toldhim that the chief’s tent was being torn down. The chiefwas a mighty hunter. He was his son， the son of Koskoosh.
Koskoosh was being left to die.
As the women worked， old Koskoosh could hear hisson’s voice drive them to work faster. He listened harder.
It was the last time he would hear that voice. A childcried， and a woman sang softly to quiet it. The child wasKoo-tee， the old man thought， a sickly child. It would diesoon， and they would burn a hole in the frozen ground tobury it. They would cover its small body with stones tokeep the wolves away.
“Well， what of it？ A few years， and in the end， death.
Death waited ever hungry. Death had the hungrieststomach of all.”
Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear nomore： the men tying strong leather rope around the sledsto hold their belongings； the sharp sounds of leatherwhips， ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds.
“Listen to the dogs cry. How they hated the work.”
They were off. Sled after sled moved slowly away intothe silence. They had passed out of his life. He must meethis last hour alone.
“But what was that？” The snow packed down hard undersomeone’s shoes. A man stood beside him， and placed ahand gently on his old head. His son was good to do this.
He remembered other old men whose sons had not donethis， who had left without a goodbye.
His mind traveled into the past until his son’s voicebrought him back. “It is well with you？” his son asked. Andthe old man answered， “It is well.”
“There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright，” theson said. “The morning is gray and the cold is here. It will snowsoon. Even now it is snowing. Ahh， even now it is snowing.
“The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavy and theirstomachs flat from little food. The way is long and theytravel fast. I go now. All is well？”
“It is well. I am as last year’s leaf that sticks to the tree.
The first breath that blows will knock me to the ground.
My voice is like an old woman’s. My eyes no longer showme the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well.”
He lowered his head to his chest and listened to thesnow as his son rode away. He felt the sticks of woodnext to him again. One by one， the fire would eat them.
And step by step， death would cover him. When the laststick was gone， the cold would come. First， his feet wouldfreeze. Then， his hands. The cold would travel slowly fromthe outside to the inside of him， and he would rest. It waseasy... all men must die.
He felt sorrow， but he did not think of his sorrow. It wasthe way of life. He had lived close to the earth， and thelaw was not new to him. It was the law of the body. Naturewas not kind to the body. She was not thoughtful of theperson alone. She was interested only in the group， therace， the species.
This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seenexamples of it in all his life. The tree sap in early spring；the new-born green leaf， soft and fresh as skin； the fall ofthe yellowed， dry leaf. In this alone was all history.
