The touch of sadness in Cogewea’s voice as she spoke of her parents, was lost on the Easterner. But the mention of “gold in the Yukon” had aroused to new life his latent passion for wealth. It was the one god of his ambition to go back home a rich man. For this, he had left the city and society. He must make good; he was not so particular how, but in some way. He had struck a rough, strange people and was gaining an exuberant experience with which to regale his associates upon his return to his old haunts. There must be wealth somewhere in this new country—mines of it among the Indians—requiring only brains and strategy to possess. He had discovered that this romantic girl was a nature’s religionist. He would court her ideals, but it would be for a purpose. He would amass this fortune—transfer it to his own pocket—and then—his reverie was broken by Cogewea:
“I must go now! Sister will need help with the dinner. You better be there within an hour or you might miss your fodder.”
“Wait! just one moment,” remonstrated Densmore as she hurried away. “I want to ask a favor.”
“Spit ’er out!” she called, half turning back.
“Will you write a letter for me this afternoon?”
“Is that all? Sure thing! I thought you were going to strike me for a round thousand, from the way you hesitated. Come to your trough at sitkum sun. S’long!” with the wave of a hand.
“Trough! system sun! What do you mean?”
“Grub at noon. Sitkum sun is midday. Chinook. I learned it on the Columbia. It is hardly spoken here.”
After dinner and the kitchen work disposed of, Cogewea joined her patient under the pines. She sat near him on the river bank, writing material in her lap. With his left hand Densmore was awkwardly tossing pebbles into the water.
“What do you want me to write?” she asked cheerily.
“A letter to mother,” and by way of emphasis, he pitched a larger stone farther into the stream.
“All right! You rangle and I’ll use the brandin’ iron.”
Densmore settled in an easy position and dictated as follows:
“Polson, Flathead Indian Reservation; Montana.
“Dearest Mother:
“A friend is writing this for me. I recently met with an accident to my arm which precludes the use of a pen. However, it is not serious and with the good nursing that I am receiving, I will soon be fully recovered. My nurse, while not a professional, is one of the very best; kind and affectionate. It is refreshing to meet with true friends in a strange place, and my nurse is certainly devoted to—”
Densmore paused. Cogewea looked up, a deep blush suffusing her dark face. Her startled eye caught his steady gaze, and her head dropped lower over the tablet as he finished the sentence:
“—her trust. She is writing this for me in the open and under the river pines.
“I think that I will remain here for an indeterminate time, since I have formed a strong attachment; and even love for my—”
Cogewea was not trapped a second time. She did not lift her eyes as she inquired in frigid tones:
“Is that all?”
Densmore concluded without seeming to notice her question:
“—environments. The people here are all in marked contrast to our home society. Of this I will tell you when I am able to write you myself. There are both thrills and romance out here.
“Address me as above. Tell sisters to write me.
“Shall I add a postscript and say that your nurse wrote this and that she is an Injun squaw?” asked Cogewea severely, looking her companion level in the face.
“N—no! I—I hardly think it necessary at this time,” he stammered confusedly. “Mother might not understand.”
“Very well. You can look the letter over while I address the envelope and if it suits you—if it is true to your dictation—it can be posed this evening. Rodeo will drive to town and return with supplies in the morning.”
Densmore took the proffered sheet and glancing through it, returned it with an ill suppressed smile, expressing his satisfaction. Cogewea folded and sealed the missive without comment and tossed it into his inverted hat at his side. There was an embarrassing silence for one short moment, when she rose and said simply:
“I must go and help sister with the children and the house work.”
“Why such hurry? I thought you had the afternoon off, and that perhaps we could visit your grandmother and hear those wonderful stories you promised me.”
“Not today!” she called back without stopping. “I think that Stemteemä is sleeping.”
“Touchy as powder!” he chuckled as he lay back on the grass in evident delight. “I thought so! She tumbled—gave herself dead away.
