“Miserble creature of a despised race! Look upon the sun for the last time, for you are going to die. I know all about your standing with the tribes. My uncle has told me of your tahmahnawis power for doing secret evil to the people.4 Your ‘medicine’ is strong and my grandmother would not hurt you. But I am not my grandmother! I am not a full-blood—only a breed—a sitkum Injun and that breaks the charm of your magic with me. I do not fear you! Besides, I happen to know of the machinations of one of your progenitors in a certain garden several thousand snows ago, where he deceived and made trouble for two of my ancestors. An ancient book contains a law wherein is said something about a woman a bustin’ your durned head; and I am that woman. Yes, I understand about you a bruisin’ my heel. You have already done that—only it happens to be my elbow. You have humiliated and disgraced me. Suppose Ji—the boys knew of this? Take that—you ornery cuss!”
Her hand shot out, followed by an explosion and the vibrating rattles flew into atoms. She continued:
“That was only to show my contempt for you; a sort of counting coup. You are a fine looking warrior without your warsong. No you don’t!” as cowed, the rattler uncoiled and began to glide away. “I will not spoil your handsome mug, but just”—bang—“decapitate you.”
The monster writhed in a convulsive twist, the head hanging by a mere shred of skin. The ball had neatly severed the neck close to the jaws.
Cogewea replaced the empty shell with a cartridge from her belt before restoring the pistol to its holster. Then stepping to a big boulder where the repulsive snake was hid from view, she sat down. She gazed along the trail where the escaped horses had fled. Chagrined, she felt that a few tears would be a relief. But she was not going to cry. She tried to think of some excuse to offer at the ranch for being afoot. It must never be known that she had been thrown. A cold nose against her hand, interrupted further musings. It was Bringo. The dog had kept out of sight and was chasing a “jack,” but came bounding at the sound of the shot. Bringo, looking into her eyes, expressed his joy by vigorous wags of his tail. Her hand dropped to his head.
“You dear dog! You are the best friend that I have.”
Bringo pressed closer trying, animal fashion, to comfort his mistress. The girl was touched and her lips quivered as she brushed the dust from his head. She felt his companionship.
“Wanawish is so mean!” with a little catch in her voice. “What shall I tell the boys? They will always laugh at me. Just think of falling off a gentle cayuse like Wanawish. And I am known as the best girl-rider of this entire region. What would Jim say if he knew? He is—”
“Did you call me Sis? What you shoootin’ at? I nearly run my laigs off a gettin’ here.”
Cogewea, startled at the voice so nearly over her, sprang up to see LaGrinder standing on a brow of the ridge. Her cheeks flushed.5 Of all men he was the last she wished to see at that moment.
“My! you frightened me!” she gasped. “It’s a wonder you don’t let a feller know you’re coming.”
“Why! I—I thought you saw me! that’s why you’re talkin’,” he answered with an aggravating smile.
“I didn’t see you! I was only talking to the dog.”
“Talkin’ to the dog? Well, do you call him ‘Jim’ when I’m out of sight?”
Cogewea made no reply.
“Where’s our cayuses? I saw you with them just before you got over the ridge.”
“Gone!—I guess.” There was a suspicious quiver in her tone.
“Gone where?”
“Ho—home, I guess.”
“How’s that Sis?”
“We—l—well! I—I!”
“What is wrong, Sis?” Jim spoke kindly and the smile had left his face. “What is it? I heard you a shootin’.”
She tried to answer him, but could not. The lump in her throat prevented. She continued to smooth the hair on Bringo’s head.
“Aw! don’t ery over spilt coffee, little squaw.”
Womanlike, the tears came. She buried her face in her hands. Jim felt that he would like to take her in his arms, but he was well aware that such action would be resented. He repressed this impulse and continued, finally drifting into his usual bragging about his good riding.
“If you got spilt from Wanawish, why you should a been more careful of the devil. Didn’t you know that there cayuse was an old outlaw? Used to have him in a Wild West show, where I was ’rena boss; and when the company busted up, he was sold back in this here Injun country, cause no one could ride him but me. He was trained to buck from a colt and I’m a little scared of him yet; and here I’m the best rider a roun’ this here range; best on the Flathead. I won the champeenship belt in Wyoming, a couple o’ years ago, and I can beat any cowpuncher in the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Montana and Idaho. But I ain’t stuck on scratchin’ Wanawish when he’s a sowin’ wild oats, which he’ll do when frightened or fed too darn well. He ain’t safe for any woman! Most bucked me off at the beef roundup last summer, when he got locoed at a rattler. Pitched like hell! and anyone else would have landed in the sage.”
Cogewea’s tears were gone. Jim’s “medicine” was generally consoling, but she deemed it unnecessary to tell him the particulars of her mishap. In feigned disgust she exclaimed:
“There you go again, Jim! I have often told you to quit your lying! That is your main fault and I’m not going to hesitate telling you of it. You are certainly entitled to the championship as the best liar this side of the Halls of Congress.”
“Now little
