A wonderful huntsman was Kantisepa, the very greatest among his people. In his aimless journeying he had passed over a large part of the vast, immutable north, proceeding far from known haunts into lands which seldom had heard the footfalls of the hunter. He had viewed wild scenes, the glory and grandeur of which few other eyes had seen. Unnamed rivers and lakes, lofty mountains, interminable swamps, places so barren and devoid of all vegetation, so breathless, weird and forlorn that life passed on in horror, fearful of the madness that lurked there—all these he had looked upon during his ceaseless pilgrimages.
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He had hunted moose and caribou and the ferocious black bears of the mountains. Once he had fought off a wolf with no better weapon than a club. His long association with the wild and its denizens had bred in him a certain uncanny wisdom. Insects and beasts and birds—he knew them all with the unerring certainty of a trained naturalist. Yet now, standing in the bright glare of the sun, gaze focused on certain huge dark specks in the distant horizon, it was evident from his expression that at last he had seen something he could not classify.

Two birds of mammoth, gigantic size were flying straight towards him. Larger than a moose or bear, of greater size even than the largest tepee, they sailed through the air, drumming as they went. Their speed and size and the horrible noise they made so frightened poor Kantisepa, that he crouched low in a thicket, resolving under no circumstances to show himself to the invaders.

Two of the huge birds flew close together—evidently for companionship. The third one, probably much younger—for it was smaller—brought up the rear, at a considerable distance behind its mates. As this bird drew close to the clearing, an incredible thing happened. It fluttered suddenly and began to fall. It came down, spinning, righted itself, coasted along for quite a distance, as if planning to alight, then lost control of its equilibrium entirely and crashed to the ground with such a sickening thud that Kantisepa was quite sure that it was destroyed utterly.
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The two other birds were almost out of sight when the catastrophe occurred. These, Kantisepa considered, must be the parent birds, and in their eagerness to reach their destination, had probably forgotten their offspring, which was probably just learning to fly. At any rate, though the Indian stood a long time waiting, the others did not return and, finally, overcome by the natural curiosity of his race, he set out in the direction of the luckless victim.

When he had approached to within a few hundred yards of his objective, he was startled almost out of his senses. Crawling out of the mass of broken wings and fragments of the bird’s body, came a curious animal, which in many respects resembled a man. A very marked difference between the creature and a man was the enormous size of the creature’s eyes—three or four times larger than the eyes of his own people—composed of some peculiar substance which glinted and sparkled under the bright reflection of the sun. Then Kantisepa noted another peculiarity: Although possessing legs almost identical to his own, this strange being did not stand upon them in the ordinary manner, but chose instead to walk on both arms and legs, as a bear sometimes walks. Of a very ready and open mind, Kantisepa could explain the creature’s presence in only one way: a parasite of some kind, possessing the same relationship to the bird as a flea would to a dog.
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Coming still closer, he was forced to readjust his first impressions. He knew wood and iron when he saw it. He gasped in wonderment. No bird at all! Instead a magic ship, a marvelous creation, invested with the strange power of sailing through the air. It, together with the two others, had come from some remote land beyond the stars. Trembling in every limb, he approached the strange being, who had crawled away from the wreckage of the ship. The creature was grievously hurt. Blood trickled on the ground beneath him. He had abandoned his efforts to crawl away and now lay perfectly still, his shoulders heaving in distress and pain.

Not without pity, Kantisepa shuddered at the sorry sight. With a slight grimace, he turned and walked over to examine the magic ship. Peering down within the center of the wreckage, he saw the form of another creature, identical to the first except that this one was hopelessly crushed and apparently quite dead. He withdrew his gaze quickly and turned back again to the first being, who still retained some signs of life.

Kantisepa quickly decided upon a course of action. He walked forward, stooped down and picked up the man from beyond the stars and started off in the direction of the village. He would take him to the chief medicine man, who, if he could not actually save the creature’s life, could at least place him on exhibition for the benefit of his curious kinsmen.
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The village was a good six miles away, but the stalwart Indian on previous occasions had carried heavier burdens. He would proceed half way to his destination that night and the remainder on the following morning. He was forced to move slowly and to rest often. The hours passed. Finally the sun slid down to a far corner of the world until only a dazzling sector of light remained. Kantisepa made camp just as night dropped its curtain of dusk over the earth. Near at hand, he could hear the murmur of a tiny stream, above which a mist arose, spreading out gradually like a gray protecting shroud above the natural willow hedges fringing the stream. Presently, the dew wet the grass. With a mournful, unearthly cry, a night bird swooped down to the place where Kantisepa stood, rising again on whirring wings to the dark vault of the sky.

“It is an ill omen,” he thought, a sudden fear gripping his heart.

And so through the brooding, interminable hours he had remained awake. First he had bathed and dressed the wounds of the strange being, then, wrapping him in his own blanket to shut out the damp cool air, he had kept silent vigil. Time crept on, its movements so slow and wearied that it seemed to him that day would never come. The tense silence oppressed him. It throbbed in his ears until the reaction of any slight sound smote sharply upon him.
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Morning came at last, heralded by flaming colors in the east, preceded by a fitful breeze that stirred the dry grass uneasily at his feet. Kantisepa was very tired. His body was stiff and sore. When he picked up the strange being again to resume his journey, his legs trembled, scarcely supporting him.

Late that morning he stumbled into the Indian encampment. Like many brown inverted cones were the dwellings that stood row on row within a narrow, peaceful valley. Through the center of the village trickled a brook, which was fed from numerous small springs bubbling up between broken rocks.

The place slept in a glare of brilliant sunlight. Dogs lay curled up in the shade of the tepees. Children played listlessly in the dead grass or waded knee-deep in the riffles of the brook. Here and there Kantisepa discerned the squat indolent forms of women and, farther on, standing at the extreme end of a willow copse, a single solitary hunter.

Suddenly the village came out of its picturesque somnolence. A dog barked unexpectedly near at hand. Magically, the plain became dotted with a scurrying throng. Men, women and children tumbled forth from drab tepees. Sharp cries arose. Led by the most nimble of foot, the entire populace raced forward to meet the returning hunter. Soon he was completely surrounded. Inquisitive eyes peered down at the strange being. Kantisepa was forced to put down his burden and immediately a babble of voices arose, continuing until a tall, gaudily-apparelled warrior pushed his way through to the spot and waved one arm peremptorily.
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“Who is this you have brought among us?” he demanded.

“A strange god from the skies,” Kantisepa answered proudly. “He came on a ship which sailed through the clouds, but which met with disaster.”

“Are you sure he will not bring a curse upon us?” inquired the old warrior.

Kantisepa wiped the perspiration from his face.

“He is without friends and without people,” he asserted. “A number of his comrades in other magic ships of the air saw him fall but did not come to his rescue.”

The chief stooped down and examined the partially conscious figure.

“He is a young man—a mere stripling youth. Did he travel alone?”

Kantisepa shook his head.

“No, there was one other with him, who now is dead.”

With a wave of his arm, the chief dismissed the jostling crowd and turned again to the hunter.

“You have done well,” he complimented him. “Raise him up and bring him to my tepee.”

Morning had passed. South the sun swept through blue unclouded skies. Together Kantisepa and the chief went forward through a lane of curious natives.
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“This being is hurt and cannot return to his people,” said Kantisepa. “His wonder ship of the air became demolished when it fell from the clouds.”

They entered the tepee where Kantisepa deposited his burden gently on a soft rabbit-robe, then rose with a weary gesture and turned again to the headman of his tribe.

“It is a strange story,” he declared. “Yet it is true. If you will summon the chief men of the village, this afternoon I will lead you and them to the magic ship.”