“ ‘I was glad when I came in sight of the big river we love so well. I like the salmon better than I do the meat of the buffalo.35 I love the wooded mountains more than I do the treeless plains so endless. The land of the Blackfeet is not so fair as that of the Okanogans.
“ ‘But my heart is buried with my little papoose in the wakeless sleep; and I long for the child who went with her white father. But I am to blame! I preferred him to my own people and he drove me away. I pray to my Great Spirit to favor me in seeing my child again. I now have children of my own kind, but they do not take the place of my first born with its unknown fate.
“ ‘When I reached my people, they were all glad to see me. My feet were bare except for the worn strips of my once fine four-point36 Hudson Bay blanket. This is why I am called by my tribe, “Green-blanket Feet.” The name connects me with the false tongued Shoyahpee of other snows. It is the strong, clinging memory—hated thing—which recalls the face of the one I once loved; whose words I believed. The blanket was his gift when I first went to him. Let the maidens of my tribe shun the Shoyahpee. His words are poison! his touch is death.’ ”37
The Stemteemä’s story was finished; her audience had listened in rapt silence to the end. Several moments passed before she again spoke:
“Cogewea; you must be more careful of that Shoyahpee. I do not like to have you with him so much. You must quit going with him alone. It is against the rules of our race for a maiden to do so. You must stop it! He only seeks to harm you. The fate of Green-blanket Feet is for you; my grandchild unless you turn from him.38 Wisdom ever visions well.”
Cogewea’s ivory teeth closed firm and her tapering fingers dug into the shaggy buffalo robe before she ventured self defense:
“The wisdom of the Stemteemä is of the past. She does not understand the waning of ancient ideas. The young bird flies more sprightly than do the old. The Shoyahpee girls go out with their men friends and nobody cares.”
The grandmother was silent for long, before making solemn reply:
“Wisdom comes with the passing of the snows. My head has been frosted by the breath of time. The nestling knows not the wide trails of the air. Winged danger abounds where the hawk is abroad. The Shoyahpee women may cling to their ways. The Nation they bear speaks loudly of wrong.”
Then, after another interval of silence, she concluded gravely:
“The grandchild is not full Shoyahpee. She is only half! She must forget her white blood and follow after her Okanogan ancestors. To their women there came no shame.”
While Cogewea felt she should respect the words of her venerable monitor, she rebelled at the thought that she must not love the fair skinned Easterner too well.
XX
A Tragedy of the Range
Miles and miles from the living dead
Herbert E. Palmer
And the tracks that the city men beat.
For I shall ride on the nape of the wind
And shine in the rainbow’s arc.
In the meantime, the H-B outfit was bending all energies to a completion of the roundup, looking forward to a return to the “flesh pots” of Mrs. Carter’s kitchen, as Rodeo expressed it, who was blessed with splendid gastronomical appurtenances.
Among the last riders to be picked up by Jim, was a handsome, active man in his early thirties. Superbly mounted on a fine black gelding of remarkable swiftness, an expert with the rope, this tall, lithe stranger proved a valuable asset to the force. Because of his proneness to sing and trill Southern plantation melodies, he was soon dubbed the “Dixie Canary.” Educated beyond his associates and possessing an exquisite voice, he rendered the evening campfire gatherings more cheery and it was not long before the singer was a general favorite with all. Devoted to his horse, he rode without whip or spur; and he invariably made his couch alongside of Twilight, as the great black was known. The boys declared that the Canary even shared his blanket with his dumb companion, when the nights were chilly.
Of his past life, the Canary was never known to speak; a prerogative courteously recognized in range etiquette. Ofttimes he appeared distraught, to live over again some pathetic episode of other days. On these occasions, oblivious of his surroundings and gazing southwards, he ever sang a low, sad, childlike refrain:
“You may holler down my apple tree;
I don’t like you any more!”
Then gathering himself with a start, the Canary would hasten about his duties with alacrity, as if to down some hauntings of troubled memory.
In a remote and wild section of the range, the riders were gathering in the last herd-stragglers, working in organized order. In the final rangle, Rodeo and the Dixie Canary, had, in a dice contest, drawn a particularly rough mountain belt, gutted by deep gulches and yawning precipitous canyons. It was still early morning, when the two reached their assigned field of operations; and separating, they climbed parallel ridges, to be followed to a conjunction at the head of the gorge. This route would lead them miles into the fastness of the upper timbered range, where comforts of the “Last Rest” awaited them. This camp consisted of a corral and
