The eight men who made up the council of the Wazhazha band of the Sichangu oyati, the people the white men called the Brulé Sioux, sat cross-legged in the greening grass, basking in the welcome sunshine.

"Truly, this is a magnificent day," commented Scalptaker, the oldest member of the group, "a day as pleasant as any during the Moon When the Strawberries Are Ripe."

"And, as far as I'm concerned, it's not a bit too soon," added Badger. "The winter was a brutal one but Wi has finally smiled upon us."

In recognition of the unseasonably fine weather, each of the men, even Fire-in-the-Hills who had been suffering from a respiratory ailment for months, had shed his stained, smelly buckskin shirt, willingly exposing his winter-tender skin to the new season. Firing up a pipe, they circulated it lazily around their circle, telling each other how good it felt to bask in the springtime sun.

"Listen!" Fire-in-the-Hills said suddenly, cupping a hand behind an ear and cocking his head.

"What is it?" Jagged Blade asked curiously. The second brawniest member of the band, smaller only than Roaring Thunder who stood six feet six inches tall, Jagged Blade was one of the band's best hunters and a fearless warrior who cracked enemy skulls with impunity. But he was not an exceptionally fast thinker and suffered as the butt of countless pranks, all of which he accepted without rancor.

"You mean you don't hear it?" Fire-in-the-Hills asked in sham disbelief.

"No," Jagged Blade replied, tilting his head and furrowing his brow in concentration.

"You really can't hear it? You mean these old ears are sharper than yours?"

Jagged Blade leaned forward, listening intently. But the only sound he could hear, outside the background noise of the camp, was the wind sighing softly through the still-bare trees.

"I don't hear a thing," Jagged Blade confessed in embarrassment.

Fire-in-the-Hills cocked his head and stared into the nearby forest. "I think," he began, struggling to suppress a grin. "I think it's ... yes, that's what it is!"

"What!" Jagged Blade demanded, his muscles tensing as if in anticipation of an enemy attack.

"It's winter telling us goodbye," Fire-in-the-Hills replied, simultaneously emitting a long, deep rumble, a magnified but remarkably accurate representation of a death rattle. Although he was considered one of the wisest men in the band when it came to serious decision-making, Fire-in-the-Hills also served as the group's humorist and satirist. During the long winter nights, he entertained the Wazhazhas with dramatic tales of ancient valor, inventive one-man skits, and remarkably accurate animal imitations. His favorites, which he repeated at every opportunity, included the tortured, plaintive cry of a rutting elk and the explosive sound of a buffalo breaking wind.