The idea struck him as absurd. He shook himself as if to throw off the shackles of irresolution. It was impossible! such weakness! He was only fascinated, he argued. Those liquid, mesmeric eyes had cast a spell over him—a dangerous spell. With a gesture of impatience he flung his half-smoked cigarette into the water and spoke so the squirrels could hear him:
“What a fool! I am not really falling in love with that squaw! Ridiculous! What of my club associates? My sisters would never tolerate it, and it would break my mother’s heart. My father would never dare call me his son again. He would disinherit me! It is impossible that I so far forget myself, my birth and my social standing. Besides, there is another who—”
He bit his lip, extracted a fresh cigarette from its case, lit it and drew at it furiously.
“Never! Never! I don’t dare! Pshaw! she only takes my fancy. What if she has been good to me?” he muttered. “I have known others of her ‘stripe’ just as kind. It is the way of all such women! They are alright as objects of amusement and pleasure, but there it must halt. Fairly educated, she can show refinement when the mood strikes her, but she makes easy to fall into the rough, uncouth ways of her associates—the ill mannered rowdies of the cow-trail. None of such for you, Alfred Densmore! A be-pistoled woman who can swear a little on occasions may be picturesque, but she is no mate for a gentleman of the upper society. Had she strings to a good mine there would be an inducement, but a squaw without compensation—a sacrifice without adequate requital—bah!”
With this soliloquy, he dismissed the “dream,” and casting himself upon the ground, was soon buried in his book.
Cogewea returned from riding at an unusually early hour. She seemed interested in the welfare of her patient, for she went immediately to him under the pines. Densmore heard the jingle of spurs and glanced up to see the girl advancing, swinging a quirt in idle abandonment. A neat riding habit set off her splendid figure to advantage and the Easterner felt his heart bound a trifle faster as he surveyed this “exquisite living picture.” Perhaps he had been too harsh in his deductions. Could there be guile in a face of such open frankness? What could be expected of the best with such environments? Her forward ways were but those of innocence. A wild flower unscathed by sun-blight or frost—a ruby unflawed—a jewel worthy of any setting. But after all, she was a squaw, while he was of an altogether higher cast. Densmore brushed aside all feelings kindred to love, but he gazed at her with a fascination ill becoming one of his superior breeding. Cogewea, ever observant, grew slightly confused as she exclaimed:
“Well! have you nothing to say? Am I such a curiosity that—”
“O! pardon me. I was just thinking.”
“Of what?”
“Of—of how nifty you look in your new suit.”
“John bought it for me, a summer present. I guess he savied it was time that I possessed some glad rags! Maybe he tumbled that I had about earned them, cooking for the bronco busters and playing nurse at the same time.”
“You certainly have been a royal little nurse, and I am afraid that I can never thank you sufficiently for your kindness. But I hope to compensate you for it all some day.”
“Aw! come off! I am not asking pay! Guess I owe my services for the part I had in getting you busted up. How is your arm?”
“Seems to be getting along finely; but there is a dull pain in my head most of the time. I trust that it is nothing serious.”
“Doubtless a mere ‘aching void’ and no occasion for alarm,” came the solemn reply. “If the malady is deep seated, an abatement must not be expected in so short a time. An absorption remedy of any nature is usually slow of results and a persistent and potent application is ofttimes necessary.”
Cogewea had seated herself at Densmore’s side and was listlessly flecking the grass with her riding lash. Her patient hardly knew how to take this diagnosis of his head trouble and its remedial prescript. He gazed at her steadily, boldly, as an enigma to fathom; but the mask was impenetrable.
“Yes! I know,” he at length acquiesced, “but I feel so lonely at times. No one to speak to; everybody busy but me. Only the birds and squirrels for company. Can you blame me for growing impatient?”
“Birds and squirrels are good company. The wild creatures are primitive and are closer the creative Spirit than we imagine. I love them! But if they do not interest you, why don’t you talk to Stemteemä? Both of you have time to throw away. Go visit in her teepee.”
“I am afraid that she would chase me away with her cane as she does Bringo and Shep at times,” he rejoined with a short laugh.
“That only attests that you no more understand her than you do your little companions here of the grove; for they are similar in character. I’ll tell you what we will do some of these days. We’ll call on her together. Do not expect your afternoon tea of fashion’s boredom, but you will be regaled on jerked venison, dried roots and berries. I will have her tell some stories that may hold interest for you—stories of the past—of the time that was. She will speak in Okanogan and I will interpret for you. I love my Stemteemä for her very golden worth. She has been a parent to all of us children. When mother died, she was the only relative we had—after daddy left us for the glitter of gold in the Yukon; and which—”
Cogewea caught herself as though she had betrayed a secret; for seldom was the father’s name ever mentioned. The girl tried,
