The Stemteemä ceased speaking. Lost in reverie, she remained silent for a time and then concluded:
“This is the end of the story told by my father of the second Shoyahpee, and of the shame of my aunt and her people. I could tell you of like wrongs of the white man, but they are separate stories. My heart is sick with the telling! You now know why I do not want Cogewea to marry this Shoyahpee. They are all false to our race! I want you to save my grandchild.”
Jim stood erect, his face set and stern. His measured words were impassioned as he spoke:
“I have heard the Stemteemä and I am not proud of my white blood. Now listen! I love Cogewea, but she has cast me aside for this strange Shoyahpee. The white man’s law permits her to choose between us, nor can tribal rules interfere. I can not fight him according to the old Indian custom, nor would I do secret injury to the meanest that live. But listen!” and the voice was lowered to an even, deadly tone. “If he so much as harms a tress of the little gal’s head, the best rider of the Flathead will kill him!”
XXV
Voice of the Autumn Leaves
Wooed her with his words of sweetness,
Hiawatha
Wooed her with his soft caresses.
As Jim turned to leave the teepee, Mary, the shy girl, handed him a sheet of paper on which was fastened a number of minute fragments of a letter, discolored and dingy, but neatly joined together. He read the following written in a feminine hand:
“Dear Alfred:
“—not state—coming home. I hope—back with—fortune—went to find. —horrible Indians—that savage squaw girl—get your scalp. —careful of—half-blood lover who—gunfight would—I am waiting—trousseau all ready—anxious for the time—Do come soon as—and do not—trouble. —game is worth—if—can get her money. —be caref—uneasy about—
“Where did you get this?” asked Jim, his eyes kindling.
“On the river bank among the pines, near the old log where the fishing is good. I was there as the morning broke.”
“Did you get all the pieces?”
“Because of the Swa-lah-kin, the wind had been strong. I picked up all that I could find, for they were scattered wide. I saw the Shoyahpee’s name and—”
“Did you show this to Cogewea?” Jim interrupted.
“No! only to you. Cogewea has not seen.”
“Have you told the Stemteemä?”
“The Stemteemä’s ears have heard, for I have translated it to her. She sent me to bring you.”
“Julia and John, do they know?”
“It was not for them! They might not understand.”
“Tell no one! Leave it to the best rider of the Flathead to take care of Sis and this dam’ snake in the grass. Where is the little gal?”
“I saw her leave with the Shoyahpee in the direction of the river pines soon after dinner.”
Jim swore under his breath and chewed furiously at his moustache. Folding and pocketing the paper, he left the lodge, walking rapidly toward the river. His impulse had been to follow the lovers and confront Densmore with the telltale letter, but upon cooler reflection he thought better of it. Retracing his steps, he went to the corral, roped and saddled his horse and rode to a distant field to look after some stock recently brought in. Cogewea was amply able to care for herself for the present, and it would be some pleasure to keep out of the way for a day or two and “let that there poor fool tenderfoot think the herd is a comin’ his way over a greased trail.”
In the meantime Cogewea and Densmore had strolled along the river until they came to the friendly old log, where the anger of the sun-god had been so unwittingly provoked. He had been more persistent in pressing his suit, but she was still exasperatingly coquettish. He proposed sitting on the log.
“All right!” she answered, “but you have first to agree that you will not again bring trouble by bothering a frog. I do not fancy another such drenching. Besides, the next time a tree might fall on us, or maybe lightning strike us.”
Densmore laughed and declared that he had no further desire to pose as a rainmaker, as there was a far more fascinating subject than frogs and possible storms to engage his attention.
“Cogewea!” he said, seating himself at her side, “how much longer are you going to put me off? I have offered you a home and all that wealth can bring you; and I am willing to have a minister or priest officiate at our nuptials, if you prefer, although I think the Indian mode far more romantic. I like it better.”
“Should I say ‘yes,’ would you dare take me East among your people? Would you take me on a honeymoon trip as do the white people?”
Her eyes were looking inquiringly into his own. Densmore’s restless gaze turned to the river as he answered:
“Why sure! little—ah—sweetheart. But don’t you believe that it would be more pleasant to wait till spring for such a tour?”
“Hardly! A visit to the cities is far preferable during the winter months. When spring comes with its bird-carols and renewed life, I want to be in the open where God and the sunshine are in evidence. If there is ever a season for the smothered stuffy city, it is winter; when the reek and slime is hidden by a charitable blanket of snow. Do you know, when I was back there in school I often thought, when watching the powdery flakes floating downward in such darkening masses that perhaps it was down from angel wings, mercifully scattered to blot out for a period the unsightly wreck of nature’s grand old forests, converted into whiskey barrels, miserable boardwalks and sewage drains.”
“Listen, Cogewea! Don’t go off on one of your dream flights. Let’s get
