“An honest gambler is supposed to meet all obligations unequivocally,” was the evasive answer.
“Nor will the true sport deny to an unfortunate loser the opportunity of retrieving,” came the ready counter.
“Certainly! My digits and winnings against an even ten thousand.”
“You are mine!” was the confident response as the fly was twirled over the water for “luck.” “Now listen for the wedding chimes.”
The game was growing wild and fascinating. This time the Easterner lost only by the fraction of a minute.
“Betting is off!” declared Cogewea when Densmore proposed a still higher wager. “Those chimes are remote, for I don’t believe that you could redeem even now.”
“There is where your reckoning is faulty,” a crafty light in his eyes. “I am nothing near my limit. I can make good several such doubles.”
“Well, I make no more wagers today,” in a tone of finality. “My tahmahnawis tells me that the signs are bad. Besides, we have enough fish already. There are still a few left of your yesterday’s catch and it is wrong and wasteful to hook them just for misconceived sport. Indians take only enough for food and no more.”
“Wait a moment! I think there is a big shiner by that rock and I want him.”
“Aw! come on and don’t be selfish. Leave a few for the next fellow who may really need them. Let’s rest on this mossy log and watch the river as it glides on its way to the ocean. You can tell me something of interest.”
No further urging was required, and Densmore, reeling his line, joined her on the fallen forest giant. Spying a small land-toad, with the end of his pole he mischievously turned it over and over towards her. Noting the action, the girl exclaimed in agitation:
“Oh! Alfred! Don’t do that to the poor little helpless thing. Besides, it will bring a storm sure. Indians claim that if you place a frog on its back, it will cause a storm without doubt. There is an old legend which tells the story of Swa-lah-kin the ‘frog woman.’29 It is in connections with the sun; that if you turn the frog thus, she will look up at the sun and flirt with him as in the beginning. He hates her so badly that he will wrinkle his brow and a tempest gathers which wets the earth. This forces her odious flippancy to find shelter out of his sight.”
Densmore picked up a fragment of bark and getting the Batrachian on it, threw both into the stream with the observation:
“I guess with that cold bath the little miss will do no more flirting for a while. Anyhow it is too clear for rain today.”
Cogewea glanced upward. The sky was blue and limpid with the exception of a single diminutive cloud which appeared to draw nearer to the hot, blazing orb of day. Pointing to it, she admonished:
“I told you that she would bring rain. See that little cloud? It will unfold and spread until the heavens are covered in no time. It is her! the Swa-lah-kin of the myth. She has flirted with the Sun and we will get soaked. There will be a downpour swift and without warning. You have done the mischief and spoiled our afternoon.”
“I supposed that you were enough educated to know better than to believe all those ridiculous signs of your people,” chided the Easterner.
“What if I am slightly educated!” came the retort with a tinge of resentment. “The true American courses my veins and never will I cast aside my ancestral traditions. I was born to them!”
“And the Pend d’Oreille has its birth far up in the mountains, but it does not remain there; slumbering within the gorges and fastnesses of wooded slopes. Bursting from its gloomy confines, it grows into a thing of magnificent grandeur, averting stagnation by constant action.”
“But it is no less water than when it issues from its rocky defiles, only less pure. And is it really so enigmatic that the fluid should run down hill? You white people will never understand us. I think it quite easy for us to turn to the Shoyahpee’s ways, compared to his qualifications to become Injun—honest Injun. I refer especially to his word of promise. He seldom keeps an agreement, while the word of a tribesman is law—or was until he became contaminated with the touch of your civilization.”
Densmore made no reply. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket when a loosely folded letter fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, glanced at the heading, then tore it into fragments, scattering them to the wind.
“From your sweetheart?” queried Cogewea, with a mischievous smile.
“My mother,” he answered carelessly, but with a degree of embarrassment.
“Tell me of your mother. You have spoken but little about your family.”
“Why!—I—I thought that I had told you.”
“No, you never have. But you have learned all about my people, from Stemteemä to my very cousins. I have never realized what it is to have a mother’s love. I was too young when she died.”
“I have one of the best mothers in the world! You would like her! Cogewea!” he exclaimed with sudden impulse, as he placed his arm about her. “I love you and some day I want to take you to her. Will you go?”
She did not resist his advances, but asked pleadingly:
“Do you think that your mother would like me? Would she really be glad; do you think?”
“Sure! little one! Why do you doubt?”
The plotter felt the girl tremble as he drew her closer. Was realization within his grasp? He had lied broadly, but what of that. There was pathos in her voice as she made reply:
“Because I am a breed!—only part white. But few recognize my kind socially. We are often made to suffer from the ungenerous remarks and actions of those who feel themselves above us.”
“To the truly high minded there are no racial barriers.
