Cogewea, the Half-Blood

Government has a few corralled at Mission Hill, where there is a reserve for them. Some have been there for many years and the final stragglers were brought in last spring shortly before you came. People were here from all over the country to see the first general chasing. It took the best horses and riders of the range to do the work.”

Cogewea then told of an amusing incident in that connection. The irrepressible camera man was there and he thought to obtain a rare picture of a band of stampeding buffaloes, bearing directly down upon him. He secured his negative alright, but with lowered horns the animals charged and he had scant time to spring into the branches of a nearby tree, where he hung, thus narrowly escaping with his life. A noted “Cowboy Artist” was in close proximity and he drew a sketch of the discomfited man swinging to the tree with the rushing buffaloes passing under him. It was, perhaps, a more interesting picture than the camera could have secured.

Thus the hours glided and the sun was bending to the western horizon, when Densmore, murmuring an endearment attempted to place an arm about the girl. Cogewea avoiding the embrace, exclaimed with a start:

“It is growing late! See how the shadows are lengthening eastward and here I have not made medicine over my old grey companion that I love so well.”

“Why don’t you love someone human, instead of that grizzled buffalo skull? A man, I should think, would be far more interesting.”

“I have yet to find him!” was the evasive answer, in pathos tones. “My field of conquest is a limited one.”

“In what way is it limited?”

“To my own kind: the breed.”

“You do not mean that! Would you not marry outside your own kind?”

“No! Never! I do not dare.”

There was a perceptible quiver in the voice and the girl felt Densmore’s grip tighten on her arm. His eyes were burning into her own and to hide her confusion, she turned her gaze to the distant peaks of the Rockies, now glowing in the sunset. The Easterner spoke warmly:

“Cogewea! I do not believe you! Is not the pure white race just as good? Why erect an imaginary barrier about your life? A true mate is one who has sympathy for your ideals; who understands and is willing to adapt himself to your ways. Don’t you think that I would make a good half-breed? I like the customs for which you have declared, and⁠—and I am anxious to learn more about that marriage ceremony.”

“If I thought you were in earnest⁠—that you really wanted to know?”

Cogewea had turned on her companion, wondering questioning eyes. The breed girl was reaching where there were thorns.

“Cogewea! little darling!” Densmore whispered as his arm stole about her. “I love you! and yesterday you promised⁠—”

“It is late!” she exclaimed slipping from the rock. “We had better go!”

“But listen! my very own! I want to say many things to you; that of which I wished to speak yesterday. Stay just a little longer! It is not late! Suppose it does grow dark? We can follow the trail. I must hear the ghosts!”

“I don’t believe they would be abroad where there is a Shoyahpee. They would frighten you if they did come. Let’s vamoose!”

“Cogewea! Tell me that you care for me! that you⁠—”

“Aw! let up! This love makin’ is hell! Let’s ride!”

XVII

Frenchy⁠—Toy of the Cowboys

The sunburnt demigods who ranged
And laughed and lived so free,
Have topped the last divide, or changed
To men like you and me.

Badger Clark

Everybody was busy at the Horseshoe Bend. The annual beef roundup of nearly a month’s duration was just three days distant. While the number of stock was less than in former years, the range was wide and it still required many skilled riders with relay of horses to accomplish the work with celerity. That was why John Carter and his foreman were anxiously engaging help to fill out their quota of men. The boys were overhauling chaps, bridles and saddles, oiling rawhide ropes and grooming horses. Each vied in going into the field with the best conditioned equipment; nor must theirs be second to any of the other outfits with which they were to come in contact. All silver mountings were burnished to glittering splendor. “War bags” were carefully made up, consisting of one change of underwear, socks, a top shirt and plenty of “tobaccy.” Bedding, tents, and many necessaries used on the range were being methodically collected. A cook for the chuck-wagon and a rangler for the saddle-string were yet to be secured.

As Cogewea came from the teepee where she had taken food for the Stemteemä, a stranger approached on horseback. The dogs ran at him, barking furiously and his spirited cayuse whirled, snorting; the rider saving himself by clutching the saddle-horn. The girl noticed that he bounced in the saddle like a rubber ball, also that he wore a green flannel shirt and that when he dismounted, his buckskin breeches bagged at the knee. They were of a style seen only in the early days of the West, and appeared out of place even on the Flathead. He wore high-heeled boots, a broad sombrero, and a scarlet kerchief was about his neck. Cogewea had nearly laughed at the comical figure. She divined at a glance that he was a tenderfoot trying to play the role of a real westerner, even to the formidable looking six-gun at his belt. He doffed his hat with a sweeping bow and a polite: “Bonjour!” to which she returned a cheery: “Hell‑o!” He then spoke:

“I wassasoom blee-ad!”

“Some what?”

“Blee-ad! I wassa soom le-tal blee-ad.”

“Aw! shake yourself. Speak English!”

“Mon-dieu! I wassa soom blee-ad! soom le-tal bis-a-cat!”

“Oh! you want a cat, a little kitten?” Cogewea laughed amusedly. “Well, we have none to spare. We are short of cats just now; stock all run down. Can book your order.”

“Sac‑ré!”