Cogewea, the Half-Blood

Now Mr. Alfred of the ‘circle,’ go your length in untrammeled pleasure with this brown beauty of the range. But no matrimonial tangle! Bah! What a match! A scion of the ancient house of Densmore, wedding a breed girl of the Okanogans. What a figure for the ball room and social functions of city life. Ye gods! My family must never know. But that possible gold of the Yukon! Who can tell what fish may be swimming my way. Surely, the catch would be worth the bait!”

X

Lo! The Poor “Breed”

Estranged from sympathy and joy,
Bearing each taunt which careless tongue
On his mysterious lineage flung.
Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale,
To wood and stream his hap to wail.

The Lady of the Lake

Cogewea seated on the veranda was endeavoring to interest herself in a book. It was a hot, lazy afternoon and she was alone. The family, including the shy-girl Mary, had gone to visit an Indian relative, leaving her with the old grandmother, whose small lodge stood not far from the farm house. Stemteemä never would consent to live in a modern dwelling with a solid roof, so her teepee had been erected, permitting her to continue after the ancient manner of her fading race. She was now sleeping on her blankets, after toiling all the forenoon at basket weaving.

Cogewea had willingly stayed at home. The letter writing under the pines the previous day had had a disquieting effect. What could Densmore have meant? The world should appear more beautiful than she was finding it. She had half expected the Easterner to join her, but he had, immediately after dinner, repaired to the bunkhouse and was indulging in a siesta. The girl, vexed and disappointed, had resorted to reading but with no concentration of thought. The theme, an unjust presentation of Indian sentiment and racial traits; The Brand⁠—stigma of the blood⁠—did not tend towards calming her perturbed mind. In sheer desperation she continued poring through the pages.

At last Cogewea became absorbed⁠—absorbed with rage. The writer, wholly ignorant of her subject, instead of extending a helping hand, had dealt her unfortunate hero a ruthless blow. The girl’s fury increased as she read, but a step on the walk caused her heart to quicken. She refrained from looking up. It must be⁠—

“Sis! do you know where there is an awl? The one at the barn is done-for and I want to mend⁠—”

“Oh! I don’t know!” she broke in with piquant resentment. “Look for it yourself and leave me alone! I’m cross as a bear! I almost hate myself today. Everything is against me, even to this maligning, absurdity of a book. The thing does nothing but slam the breeds! as if they were reptiles instead of humans. You are no good! along with all the rest of us. You are only an Injun!⁠—a miserable breed!⁠—not higher than the dust on your white brothers’ feet. Go away!”

Jim turned without comment, walking towards the bunkhouse. He was biting his mustache, his lips compressed with anger.

“The damn tenderfoot!” he muttered to himself. “I’ll get square with the cuss, if there’s lead throwin’ teachin’ him some sense.”

At the door he almost bumped into Densmore, who was just emerging from the building. In tones ominous with intensity, he accosted him:

“Sis is cross as hell! Gave me the devil; said I was no good, only an Injun and all sorts of things. If I ever find out who is a tellin’ her lies⁠—if I ever know⁠—there’ll be somthin’ doin’ ’round this here ranch; savey? There’ll be hell to pay if old Jim gets wise.”

For a moment he glared at the astounded Easterner, and then strode to the barn; hatred gleaming in his eyes. His muscular hands were clenched with such force that the nails dug into the palms. He now hated “that cussed tenderfoot”; hated him for usurping all of Cogewea’s time. He was willing that she nurse the stranger, but she had treated him with coolness ever since the accident occurred. And now the white sneak must have been throwin’ dirt or she would never have called him a “miserable breed.”

Densmore was still standing where the irate Westerner left him. He had been too surprised to offer any reply. What had Cogewea told Jim, that he was so angry and threatening? He could recall nothing that he had said against him of any consequence. True, Jim had been instrumental in the mishap, but he had tried to forget that, since he had learned more of the western ways. Where was the mistake? He was tempted to go to the girl and learn the trouble, but paused upon second thought. He did not want to quarrel and Jim had said that she was cross-tempered. He would go fishing and wait a more propitious time; until she was in a better mood.

With this determination, Densmore took rod and reel and sauntered towards the river. But he could not forget the bitter words of the foreman. Suddenly he struck the ground impatiently with the butt of his pole! The Injun must be jealous of him!

“Why the copper colored savage!” he muttered aloud. “He can have the squaw for all I care. I like the girl only as any pleasing chattel. As a game, she affords amusement, but hardly a dividend. The wild Brownie will be forgotten when I return to civilization. But I must not cross that hot headed fool too severely.”

Cogewea had not meant to be ugly to Jim when he interrupted her reading. She was out of humor and tried to blame it to the book. It was not suited to her ideals. Inwardly fuming, she had said that which she afterwards regretted. Jim had scarce reached the barn when she experienced remorse for her outburst of ill temper to the one who had always shown her naught but kindness. She liked Jim, the great, big hearted protector that he was. She recalled his devotion