XII
On Buffalo Butte
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,
Hiawatha
Life is checkered shade and sunshine,
⋮
Day is restless, night is quiet,
Man imperious, woman feeble;
The riders were in the hills to capture a few stray broncos, escaped from the general corral. They had succeeded in chasing them into a cunningly constructed “blind” in a wooded canyon where the colts were branded, and were now returning to the ranch in high spirits.
“Jim,” called Celluloid Bill, as he half turned in his saddle to face his foreman, “yo’ ain’t goin’ to let that there tenderfoot cut yo’ out from yo’re gal when he can’t ride a cayuse an’ yo’ the champeen bronco twister of th’ Flathead? Ain’t goin’ let th’ feller get th’ best of yo’ in th’ deal are yo’? He follers her aroun’ like a stray maverick of th’ range.”
“Sho’ thin’!” broke in Rodeo Jack with well feigned earnestness. “That there guy is plum good schemer. I knowed for some time now that he fell offen th’ cayuse an’ busted his elbow a purpose so to be with Jim’s gal. No ’scuse for his twistin’ his arm under his‑self as he did. An’ th’ gal ’pears mighty ’tentive to the guy. I never hit th’ love trail for any great distance, but I can see a danger signal when it flares up like sheet lightenin’ an’ big as half section of sage desert.”
“I hater see Jim get bad lef’; I hater see that there guy win. Mos’ wish we’d a dug a six-foot grave,” moaned Silent Bob.
“You may have a chance to dig that there grave yet,” growled the foreman, who usually stood these banterings in guarded silence. A man of few words and deep passion, this chaffing at this time stirred his inmost soul. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. What had come over Cogewea? She no longer rode out with him on the range as of yore, nor strolled among the river pines in the gloaming. He had not objected to her nursing the tenderfoot. Indeed, he was glad that she could do so; but his heart was bitter towards him for stealing her affections. What right had this man with his smooth, polished ways to step between them? Could he be sincere, or was it through revenge for the trick played him? In either case, Jim now determined to bring the affair to a climax at the very first opportunity. He had never asked the girl for her hand, but he would do so, and if she refused in preference for the stranger, he would take his “medicine” so long as everything was on the square; but if the guy was false to the little gal—Jim’s face grew stern—there would be a funeral at the Horseshoe Bend.
Jim’s meditations were broken by Rodeo, who, pointing to the east where Cogewea on Wanawish could be seen passing over a low swell, exclaimed with deliberate exactness:
“Behold, old skate! yo’ gal an’ alone for a wonder! Better hit up th’ breeze afore that there blond headed pal of yourn follers her like a calf. Any slow bird can get the mornin’ worm but it takes th’ swift winged hawk to capture any thin’ worth while.”
“Dam’ the feller!” retorted Jim in a burst of temper. “If I know my own name, no pretender that can’t ride is a goin’ get her.”
“Aw hell! Yo’ talk like yo’ mean business!” flung Rodeo with provoking sarcasm. “Talk is cheap! It takes money to buy a bottle of bitters.”
“You bet I mean it! Old Jim don’t waste no time a boastin’.”
“Gwan! Yo’ worked aroun’ them there corrals so long, feller, yo’re startin’ a peddlin’ their dust.”
“You’ll see! If somebody is doin’ me dirt, there’ll be somethin’ stirrin’ and don’t you forget it. I ain’t kickin’ if all is fair.”
With this the foreman, ignoring further jibes from his companions, swung off at right angles and headed for Buffalo Butte, where he knew the romantic girl would be admiring the sunset. He rode at a hard pace. He was mad! desperately mad to think that the fellow who could not ride should come along and splash into the affairs of the best rider of the Flathead, and take from him his girl.
But as Jim rode, his anger abated. The cool evening breeze fanning his hot brow, mellowed the hatred that rankled his brain. The world grew more pleasing. Charity, the greatest of divine attributes, swept bitterness aside. Surely Cogewea could not love the polished stranger. Had she not left him and ridden alone to the hills? Perhaps he would find her willing to listen. What girl could afford to ignore the hand of the best rider of the Flathead? And when this brown nymph did accept him, there would be fiddlers and an old fashioned dance at the big log house. No waltzes nor two-steps, ’cause he couldn’t do ’em. Only the quadrilles and the “Virginia hoe-down” of other days; with a “clog” by Rodeo Jack. There would be a jug of “tangle-foot” to complete the festive joy. There would be no starched guys from town with white shirts, stiff collars and plug hats, with hair all parted in the middle. None but cowpunchers with gaudy shirts, and with silk handkerchiefs about their necks; and the old maid homesteaders from out on the flats. The enamored foreman imagined that he heard the caller yelling:
“S‑w‑i‑n‑g! yo’ pa’‑d‑ner!”
and:
“Don’t forget that purty little gal,
The gal yo’ left b‑e‑h‑i‑n’ yo’!”
And the light step to the tune of the “Red River Jig.”
Thus the bronzed rider dreamed, his stoical features softened by that most refining of emotions—love!
Cogewea had galloped across the intervening miles of flats to the foothills. Here she slackened pace and climbed the steep ridge to the summit of Buffalo Butte. Dismounting she left Wanawish, with a lariat trailing from his neck, to feed on the bunch-grass, while she mounted a large rock, where she had often reclined. The glow of the setting sun
