Before the sun had peeped over the far towering Rockies, the string of riders was disappearing behind the sloping ridge on the southeastern shore of the Pend d’Oreille. They rode in divisions for the hard chase. Since the opening of the Flathead Reservation to settlers it was no longer possible for the stockmen to keep large numbers of either cattle or horses on the open range. Even the buffaloes, owned by private parties, were, because of a Departmental edict, disposed of to the Canadian Government; barring a few that were too wild to corral. The several bands of horses still at large, were of the untameable class, fleet-footed and wary, requiring a combination of the best riders of the Flathead—among whom LaGrinder was second to none—for their capture.
After the last horseman had passed beyond the high ground, Cogewea turned to watch the sun rise over the embattled mountains. The lofty snow peaks, first turned crimson, then golden, as the fiery orb floated above the rugged barrier. In transport she stood until it had cleared the utmost pinnacle, and then turned to her sister who had joined her in an endeavor to plan the day’s work so as to make the ever-recurring evening meal, something from the ordinary. But this was not easy, since the riders usually returned in groups of two and four which rendered it difficult to arrange for any uniformity of order. They finally agreed that the best they could do was to “fill ’em up” on bread, beef, beans and spuds and keep a boiler of hot coffee ready. Both women were weary of the endless cooking and constant clatter of dishes, and no wonder! But perhaps their task was hardly less arduous than that of the poor devils who rode in the hot sun from early morning till dark, and sometimes far into the night. LaGrinder, the foreman, had but six hours sleep in three days and it was wondered how he kept going.
“I’ll be glad when the roundup is over,” said Julia. “LaGrinder thinks that it will last but a few more days.”
“I will not be sorry to see the windup myself,” rejoined Cogewea, as she sank into the nearest chair with something of a sigh. “Cooking and rope-throwing!” she continued musingly. “What a combination! The connections are manifest, but what of results? A few somebody’s wild broncs corralled; the sizzle and odor of the branding iron amid the smother of alkali dust. But it is all in the game! Life is a gamble, a chance, a mere guess. Cast a line and reel in a splendid rainbow trout or a slippery eel. Whirl a lariat and bring up a lordly racer already branded or a scrub cayuse unclaimed. I wonder,” she concluded dramatically, “what is on the range for me?”
“Mind that you rope a slick-ear!” laughingly replied her sister.
“Well, I am not yet riding in the matrimonial roundup,” was the whimsical retort, “nor am I still-hunting for any maverick.”
With this, the two sisters repaired to the kitchen and were soon busy clearing away the breakfast table. Cogewea could not understand herself. She could find no place in life. Her mind burned with an undefinable restlessness. Her longings were vague and shadowy; as something not to be attained within the narrow limits of her prescribed sphere. If she gazed at the mountains, she imagined that they beckoned her. Called to her as if she were a part of them. If she gave heed, there was disenchantment; a volatilization of a jocose dream. Like a stream she was ever gliding on without aim or purpose. Was it eventually to be lost in the ocean of infinity? Even so, were not all mankind in the same channel—only that some sweep over white sands and smooth pebbles, while others dash among jagged rocks and splinter-edged boulders. Let hers be of the last, if only for an object. Those of the mud-current and murky tide were objects of commiseration.
But what is there gained by kicking? Our trail, set and marked before our advent in life, ends with a leap into the shadowy Unknown. Accept everything as inevitable and with a brave heart. Smile, even though there appears nothing for which to live. Why attempt to lift the mask of existence? Surely, in time we will realize and know.
Cogewea’s impulse was to be going, going, going; and with the completion of the morning’s work, she determined to take a gallop on Wanawish among the hills. This, perhaps, would put the phantoms to flight. She would also bring the mail, for they were expecting to hear from her sister Mary and the Stemteemä.3
With this resolution, the girl’s despondency vanished and she was humming a low tune as she entered her bedroom door. Within a few moments she reappeared, attired in a neat riding habit which portrayed her trim form most perfectly. Swinging a quirt, her silver-embellished spurs jingled musically, as gaining the veranda steps she turned to call to her sister cheerily:
“Goodbye! Take a few hours off and let things drift till I return. Plenty of time! The whole universe is chock full of time; with all eternity awaiting us just over the Border.”
“You want to watch your horse,” admonished Julia, as she came to the door. “John said only the other day that Wanawish bucks hard sometimes.”
“Why! you talk as if I were a tenderfoot and had not been raised among the bunch-grass cayuses. Using but one stirrup I can ride anything standing on four hoofs. You are wasting valuable time with your admonitions. Wanawish and I understand each other.”
“But Cogewea; you are too reckless in your riding.”
“Goodbye! my monitor,” she again hailed with a merry laugh. “Look for me to help you with the evening feed.”
With this parting flung over her shoulder, this girl of
