Further musings were cut short by her companion, who, with a supreme effort expostulated:
“Aw! come outen it! I’m a thinkin’ yo’ all’d make a good preacher woman. Them there kind what wants ter be made perlice wimin an’ jedges an’ th’ main push. Wantin’ to wear th’ breeches an’ boss th’ hull shebang. I hater—”
“What do you mean?” Cogewea laughed, her mood instantly changing. “A missionary, a police matron, or what?”
“Why! them there wimmin what go out an’ make speeches an’ everythin’ else. Yo’ know what’s allers in th’ noospapers, ’bout their doin’s. Ev’ry paper a feller parooses says somethin’ ’bout people a throwin’ rotten aigs at ’em. I fergit that there name they call ’em, but yo’ oughter know. I hater talk so much ’bout—”
“Oh! I know what you are referring to. Suffragettes.”
“Y‑a‑s! that’s ’em. People a bowlin’ aigs at ’em.”
“And that is why you want me to turn suffragette, so you can pelt me with stale eggs?”
“N—no! I didn’t mean that there way. I was jes’ a kiddin’; ’cause yo’r a dam’ good win’ jammer.”
“Well! now! I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment, joke or a slur.”
“Aw! I was only jokin’. Can’t yo’ take a tumble? I hater have ter ’splain so much; I hater get so tired a talkin’.”
“Yes, I tumble. But you must be fatigued after such a prolonged jamboree. I never heard you make so continued a speech.”
They both laughed.
Silent Bob had been with the Horseshoe Bend family so long that he had become as one of them. He at least liked Cogewea, and if he really loved her, it is doubtful if he ever could have brought his words to such a declaration, although the boys contended that he had done so, as previously described. But Bob understood her perhaps, better than did any of his companions. He knew that the girl meant right, despite her odd, forward ways. And Cogewea admired the droll Southerner, for his crude, manly qualities; but she seemed to prefer Jim, notwithstanding she was ofttimes irritated because of his attentions. Yet, after scolding him, she always forgave him. She never could get the Westerner out of humor with her; nor could she long hold resentment.
Arriving in Polson, Bob drove directly to the boat landing. The steamer came gliding in, the passengers thronging the deck. Cogewea discerned her aged grandparent and her sister Mary, standing apart from the others; pathetic in social isolation. The old squaw was wearing her semi-civilized garb. A brilliant colored handkerchief was bound about her head, while the slightly stooped shoulders were wrapped in a plaid shawl. Wampum and ear ornaments were in evidence, and beaded moccasins encased her small, shapely foot.
Mary McDonald, known as the “shy-girl,” was as tall as her sister, Cogewea, lithe and slender. Her skin was of the fairer type, inherited from her white father. Jet was her hair as the raven’s wing, while her eyes were of the deepest blue; with long, dark sweeping lashes, which emphasized the native beauty of her strongly featured face. Her Indian coyness and modesty of manner, had not been broken by her convent schooling. Her dress was orange and becoming to her trim figure. She loved the ambitious Cogewea, with a deep, sisterly love, although she had often been embarrassed by her independence of action and speech.
Scarce was the gangplank in place, when Cogewea rushed forward to assist Mary with the baggage, leaving the none too strong grandmother unencumbered. The little troop, as it filed ashore, attracted no attention from the assembled loungers, but there was one passenger who observed its individuals with mingled curiosity and disappointment. He was a medium sized, rather handsome man of about thirty four, light complexioned, thin lipped and with a cold, calculating grey eye. His dress was that of a business man rather than the sport. Fresh from a great eastern city, he had expected to see the painted and blanketed aborigine of history and romance; but instead, he had only encountered this miniature group of half-bloods and one ancient squaw. Observing Bob with the team and attracted by his generally “range” appearance, he accosted him, expressing his vexation and disgust for the writers who had beguiled him to the “wild and woolly.”
“Yo’ can strike ’em back on the reservation whar they wear feathers an’ scalps,” answered Bob with an inward chuckle, “but yo’ don’t fin’ th’ gen‑u‑ine article a cavortin’ in a bus’lin concentration like this here miterpolish.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the stranger with sudden interest. “I would like to see some of them. I grew tired of the tameness of city life, and came out here hoping to secure employment on some large stock farm. I want to rough it a while among Indians and cowboys.”
His allusion to a “farm” branded him as a truly verdant tenderfoot; and Silent Bob’s eyes twinkled as he rejoined:
“If yo’ don’t have no ’ticular difference ’tween farmin’ and ranchin’, yo’ might strike a job with my boss.”
“What is the difference? I supposed that farming and ranching were just the same?”
“Y‑a‑a‑s! a farm is whar they keep hawgs, an’ milk a pen full of cows an’ feed calfs outen a bucket an’ get milk blowed all over yo’ clo’es. A ranch is whar they keep hosses an’ cattle an’ run ’em on th’ range, an’ roun’ ’em up in corrals an’ bran’ ’em with a hot iron. On a farm they hire tame white men an’ sunny schoolteachers. On a ranch they have wil’ Injuns an’ wil’er range riders; all a wearin’ big hats an’ silver spurs; an’ a totin’ of a six-shooter or
