“Go back, Bringo! You’ll get licked up town and your mistress will have a fight on her hands.”
The girl had a habit of talking to her dumb friends and they seemed to understand. But Bringo did not always mind. His super-intelligence discriminated between an actual command and one of implied simulation. Turning to her horse she continued:
“Hell‑o! Wanawish! How are you, old chum? Do you feel like kickin’ up dust on the cross-trail today?”
The horse whinnied and pawed restlessly.
“Why, Wanawish! Hungry again? You had your oats not more than an hour ago. Your appetite is equal to that of a bronc buster.”
Giving the horse an additional measure of grain, Cogewea proceeded to saddle him with all the ease and grace of an experienced rider. Inured to the hardships of the range, but few of the boys could surpass her in this respect. She led Wanawish from the barn, and notwithstanding he was saddle-broke, he circled and pranced as if the process were entirely new to him. Some of the cattlemen claimed that he had once been an outlaw and had at least one man to his credit. But of this fact, his mistress was in blissful ignorance.
Cogewea galloped away without a backward glance and did not see Bringo skulking at a distance. The girl was naturally lighthearted and her mood had changed. The human mask was up, as she was wont to express it. She rode at a steady pace over the flats and coulees, her spirited steed pressing steadily on the bit. She was considered a good equestrian and no one knew it better than herself; but like all riders, she was somewhat nervous at times. This “ague” comes occasionally to the masculine puncher, even though possessed of the most iron courage. But a rider should be immune to fear, should never show the least indications of white-blood. Cogewea would not for the world let the boys know that she was afraid. It just happened that she was never thrown in their presence and that was why she boasted about her good horsemanship, as all range riders do. Boasting is a recognized weakness of the range.
Cogewea’s intentions were to go to the little town and get the ranch mail and return home without delay. When she reached Polson, she did not stop to visit but remounted and rode southward. She galloped till she came to the steep Polson Hill, then climbed more slowly. Reaching the crest she reined her horse to admire the scenery of the beautiful Flathead. The day was clear and cloudless. Looking northward she could see the Flathead Lake with its shimmering crystal waters. On the east shore the Rockies reared their lofty snow-covered summits, while the foothills blended with the tint of the trees growing among them. The western shore was fringed with huge hills and rocks with deep sloping gulches breaking through its banks. The Flathead River entered it from the north, while the Pend d’Oreille flowed out of it to the south. Steamers and launches could be seen going to and fro on its waters, carrying passengers and freight. No railroads had yet crossed the Reservation except in the extreme southern part.
The girl, remained several minutes lost in reverie; then turning her steed with a quick movement, she loped down the wagon grade. By making shortcuts she thought to reach home sooner than by the main road, and in so doing, she came to a high ridge. On its brow she reined in Wanawish in startled amazement. Not far down the slope was a prostrate form—a rider—while his faithful horse was feeding on the bunch-grass near by. Recovering from her surprise, she approached. It was James LaGrinder sleeping in the broiling sun. Her first emotion was of pity, knowing the hardships he had encountered during the past week. But the spirit of mischief predominated, and poor, tired Jim was to suffer humiliation at the hands of one for whom he would at any time have laid down his own life.
Catching his horse, she led it away, leaving the foreman to dream of the “one nearest his heart.” Thoughtless girl! Had she known that the rider, after a long, hard chase had dismounted to readjust his cinch, and, thinking to give his winded mount a few moments rest, had sat down only immediately to fall asleep from utter exhaustion, she would not have left him afoot so far from home. But ignorant of all this, she rode away elated. What a joke, she thought, for Jim to be obliged to walk six miles when he awoke.
Cogewea had proceeded about a mile, when there was an ominous buzzing among the rocks at the side of the trail. Before she could realize the situation, Wanawish, wildly snorting, gave a lightening leap and began bucking at a terrific rate. Caught unawares, Cogewea landed sprawling in the sage. Half dazed she sprang to her feet; unhurt save for a slight bruise on the arm. Wanawish, with another defiant snort, tossed his head and with Jim’s horse in the wake, fled towards home. Her frantic: “Whoa Wanawish!” had no effect and soon both steeds were lost to view over a swell.
Cogewea smoothed her crumpled hair, replaced her Stetson and brushed the dust from her skirts. Then shifting her quirt to the left hand and drawing a six-gun, she went in search of the cause of her mishap. She found it—an immense rattler still coiled under the sage, a score of feet away. She essayed to approach, when an angry whi‑r‑r‑r warned her that familiarity would not be tolerated. She stopped, drew back a pace or two, her black eyes sparkling with resentment. Perhaps it was owing to her early mental training as well as to a naturally dramatic nature, that she addressed the
