Cogewea, the Half-Blood

him even if I am a ‘squaw.’ But that is why I say he will never ask me to be his wife, even if I did care. It is a cinch that I will never propose to him, and should he ever ask me, I would refuse.”

“Do you think, Sis, that you would? Do you⁠—”

“Yes, because he is a white man, and I am an Indian, or half, rather.”

“Then you think that is a good reason? I’m glad, but lots of Injun women marry white men.”

“Yes! I do think it a good reason. You know how sensitive we all are about our Indian blood. No difference how little we have of it, it seems to stick in our minds. If I was to marry a white man and he would dare call me a ‘squaw’⁠—as an epithet with the sarcasm that we know so well⁠—I believe that I would feel like killing him. That is my reason. Should I marry my own kind, he would never throw my Indian descent in my teeth.”

“Then there may yet be a show for me?”

“No! Jim! never! You must give that up. Dismiss it from your mind. I cannot love you in the light I should want to love a husband. Too many homes are ruined; too many lives are blighted because of the lack of love at the fireside. It is the only element which will prevent husband and wife from drifting apart. Love is essential to the perfection of every life and when denied at home, will be sought elsewhere. I will never marry a man unless I love him and he is of my own kind. Money will never buy me. I’d rather die unmarried than sell myself for the glitter of gold⁠—the gold which is so rare among my own people.”

Although Jim’s heart ached in every fiber, he showed no visible perturbation. With a forced laugh and a wave of his brown hand which swept the valley, he said:

“And here! out on this here flat, we have old maids by wagons full. They’re lonely and maybe dyin’ for somebody.”

“Yes! they are an industrious class of women and mostly schoolmarms all making their own living. Why don’t you marry one of them? You would be ahead by a broad hundred and sixty acres of land; could afford to quit punching cattle, settle down and boss your own domain.”

Jim picked up a small stone and threw it far down the steep ridge before answering. His attitude was melodramatic.

“I might marry one of them if they’d ask me. But I’m afraid I’d drown her if she ever happen to call me a ‘buck.’ I’d sure be spectin’ ’mestic complications! None of them there schoolmarms could ’preciate the best rider of the Flathead.”

“Of course not! It would take a real sport to do that. If you depend on your riding ability to win a sweetheart from among those ‘Missourians’; you will sure die of a sour crop.”

“Sis! I’ll never marry anyone if not you!” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “And listen to what I’m tellin’ you! If that there white man takes you ’way from me and I find he is playin’ you false⁠—and I think he is⁠—I sure will leave this feller’s mark on him⁠—Savey?”

This speech was delivered in a low even tone and as he spoke, the Westerner’s hand touched the hilt of the six-gun at his hip. Cogewea’s breast thrilled with a sickening fear. All the warnings of the Stemteemä and her own wavering doubts concerning the Shoyahpee, came rushing through her mind. Her voice was tense with piteous anguish as she pleaded.

“Oh! Jim! You do not mean that he might be false? You cannot mean that you would kill him? You are only guessing at a wild improbability. It is impossible. You are taking chances!”

“You bet I mean both! Straight goods, Sis!”

“Then James LaGrinder, I will never marry. Never!”

Was she sincere? She doubted herself. Jim stood impassive, arms folded and gazing out over the darkening Flathead.

“Let’s hike for home,” she exclaimed. “It will soon be dark and here we have been chewing the rag for an hour.”

She jumped off the rock and began coiling her lariat. She tied it to her saddle, mounted Wanawish and started down the steep declivity. Jim rode in her wake a rejected suitor. He pondered!

“She loves no one and may yet come my way. I can afford to wait. She can’t love that there eastern guy⁠—a feller who falls off a hoss so soon.”

But his newly awakened resentment for Densmore, he could not banish, nor did he try to smother it. Brooding, he now hated him. He felt that he was false, not a true man. There was bound to be an accounting sometime; a reckoning when Cogewea would learn of his true character. Until then, he would abide his time.

Silently the two wended their way down the bluff trail. When they reached the flat, with hardly a word they spurred into a gallop homeward. Their thoughts were disturbing as they rode through the gloaming. These were of the tenderfoot, who had come into both their lives. The lonely cry of a night-bird, and the plaintive wailing of a solitary coyote in the distance, seemed fitting to perturbed mentality. They arrived home to see Densmore returning from an unsuccessful fishing trip. Mary, the timid, fair-skinned half-blood, was beating a tin pan, a belated supper call ever welcomed by the hungry riders.

XIII

A Visit to Stemteemä’s Teepee

Filled the red-stone pipe for smoking,
With tobacco from the South-land,
Mixed with bark of the red willow,
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.

Hiawatha

The hot, sweltry days of August were closing. The tenth of September, which marked the opening of the great fall roundup⁠—when the riders of the H-B would remain in the saddle from morning till night⁠—was drawing near. It was Sabbath, and the ranch home was almost deserted. The boys, arrayed in