“Cogewea! You understand what I mean!” was the passionate reply. “A union by the native mode would be romantic and just as binding as that of—”
“Let’s go home!” exclaimed Cogewea abruptly, disengaging her hand and springing to her feet. “The sun is nearly down and those hungry boys will soon be lopping in. I must help sister with the supper.”
“Cogewea! Stay a little longer! I have something to say and—”
“Say it tomorrow when we ride out on the old buffalo grounds. Then,” she continued with a laugh, “you may have the full floor, since I have monopolized most of the time today.”
XVI
On the Old Buffalo Grounds
No more shalt thou from grassy and beflowered spot,
(To the Last Buffalo) Sandbar
In peaceful rest look upon the silent world;
Nor again, in thy majestic wrath, arise and hurl
Thy mighty form in fiercest fray—
Densmore’s declaration under the pines had thrilled Cogewea, as no words ever had. Could he really love her and was he sincere? She questioned herself. Perhaps after all she was to come into the life she had ofttimes pictured—a home—a husband who loved books and who would appreciate her efforts at making their domicile a place of endearment and happiness. Refined, he was so particular about his dress and he never ate with his knife, where, in the free, wild range, table manners were given but slight consideration. Somehow she wished that he could throw a rope like Jim—and—swear a bit on provocation. Perhaps he would learn.
But why did he harp on the tribal marriage ritual, rather than that of the white man’s law? Surely he must know that this custom was being fought by those in authority and that it would not be recognized by either court or society, as legal. If he was aware of these facts, then perhaps he was trying to trap her. The warning of the grandmother came to her with deepening force. But, she reflected, he had been in the country only a short time and naturally would be ignorant of the true situation. Anyway, he had declared his love for her. When he should find the Indian rite to be obsolete—impossible in the premises—he would think differently, she argued. In the meantime, by forgetting that he was not her blood, the happiness of the hour was hers.
It was the middle of the afternoon, when the two rode away from the ranch, Bringo skulking in the rear. Cogewea did not scold him. She was too happy. They proceeded slowly, until they reached the crest of the first ridge; the girl leading over the narrow trail. Here she paused as if uncertain of her own mind. It struck Densmore that she was unusually silent and meditative.
“Where to?” he asked.
“I hardly know,” she answered dreamily. “Guess we’re on our way somewhere. S’pose we go to Buffalo Butte, my favorite roostin’ place. There is something that always draws me there.”
“You are the guide! It is mine only to follow.”
For a moment Cogewea sat her horse motionless, her eyes fastened on the distant butte. Suddenly the smouldering fires of an unusually moody nature seemed to leap into flame, as she exclaimed:
“Then come along, Mr. Shoyahpee; for we are goin’ do a little ridin’! The spirits are callin’ and I dare not lag.”
As she spoke, this girl of elemental mystery, turned Wanawish, and touching him with the spur, raced down the slope and across the expanse of lower level with a reckless daring born of the range. Her companion, attempting to speed, could seemingly maintain no cohesion with his saddle. Mentally cursing, Densmore held to the chase for a mile or so, thinking that she would stop. But there was no slack to the mad dash.
Characteristic of the Indian, Cogewea did not once glance back to see how fared her escort. The Easterner noticed with what rhythmical ease she sat her courser. Her graceful form, bending slightly over the saddle bow, appeared an integral part of the flying steed. A great brilliant handkerchief billowed above the shapely shoulders like a silken banner in a gale. Caught by a sportive gust, her sombrero went sailing out into the sage. Describing a circle and with no check to Wanawish’s velocity, she swooped down like a hawk and snatching the erratic headgear from the ground, was again off over the trail. On she sped, across the big flat like a falcon loosed from bars; this free girl of the outdoors. The wild blood of a wilder ancestry was calling, and the wine of youth was strong.
Soon, Cogewea had passed from sight and her convoy plodded gingerly on. Aggrieved, he was tempted to turn back. Had she not wilfully ran away from him? But upon reflection, he determined to continue on to the tryst. The anticipation of an uninterrupted evening with this strangely fascinating girl of such diversity of temperament, was predominant. Perhaps the goal of his aspirations was within reach. Why had she selected this lonely, isolated height for their outing?
Reaching the butte, Cogewea slipping the bit, left Wanawish to crop the sparse bunch-grass, while she climbed to her old perch on the summit of the rock. There she sat dreaming. Her forbears had, in other snows, come from the now state of Washington, to contend with the dominant resident tribes for the privilege of hunting the buffalo for meat and robes. The far stretching prairies, the flats and coulees now decorated by the six-by-ten shacks of homesteaders, were once this animal’s domain. Was it any wonder that the old Indians were soul-weary, preferring to go the shadowy way, where again the buffalo may roam unmolested by the invasion of the white man.
True, she reasoned, those poor settlers must live, the wild places subdued; but should it be at the expense of the helplessly weak? The unalterable edict had gone forth: “Civilize or go under!” but where had there ever been a primitive hunter-race
