“The dough is my own and I think that I have the right to do with it as I please!” was the spirited retort. “I happen to know something about your ‘preferred stock’ and—”
“But your own Agent recommended this investment to you in this very office as you doubtless will recall.”
“Yes, I do recall but who recommends the Agent? I know what a time I had getting this money pried loose from the grasp of the Bureau, and I now intend handling it without any assistance from that bunch. I am no longer an ‘incompetent’ and in the present instance I believe that I can determine my own affairs, even to the withdrawal of my entire three thousand from your bank. While I am given control of my money, I shall be glad to consult with your firm should I contemplate any material investment—but not for any ‘preferred stock.’ ”
Without further controversy the cashier counted out the amount of the cheque and handed it to her. With an acknowledgement, Cogewea left the bank with a heavier mind than she dared admit. She hurried to her companionable, though at times erratic cayuse, where left standing unhitched. Wanawish whinnied as she approached, and Bringo came forward to greet her. But for once the girl gave slight notice to her dumb friends.
Cogewea mounted and scaled the steep Polson Hill. There she paused and gazed longingly back at the little town nestling by the shimmering lake. She wondered when she would be permitted to see it again. Her feelings were altogether different from those supposedly of the happy bride-to-be. As if to smother a rising sensibility of her present questionable course, she abruptly turned Wanawish and raced down the sharp slope with reckless speed. She galloped over the smooth prairie until in sight of the Pablo Buffalo Ranch. The pasture and the high corral were alike empty. These recalled to her days passed, when she rode the range a carefree girl, with no “sweet love” weighing her down; when her heart leaped at the sensation of thundering on the flank of the stampeding herd. But now, the vision of the dust-cloud rolling up from the vast expanse, brought only a pang of regret.
Reaching Mud Creek—a misnomer of a truly clear stream—Wanawish showed thirst and Cogewea gave him the rein as he turned from the wooden bridge. While watching the horse take in the cool, mountain water, the girl realized that she, too, was thirsty. Dismounting, she knelt and drank. As she rose, she spied two riders on the lofty ridge overlooking the Buffalo Ranch. Mechanically she felt for her glass, only to find that in her haste it had been left at home. Although the atmosphere was clear, the distance was too great to make out with the naked eye who the horsemen were. They sat their mounts motionless, and facing towards her. As she turned to Wanawish, the thought of the money in her handbag at the saddlebow came to her. Removing her gauntlets and gazing cautiously around that no one was observing, she made a rent in her padded saddle-blanket. Into the opening she shoved the crisp bills and then deftly closed it with a hair pin. Remounting, she swung into a steady lope for Ronan. Before passing from view, she glanced at the ridge where the two riders had been observed. Only one, sentinel like, was to be seen. Both the horse and the rider appeared as immobile as though cast in bronze. Apprehensive of the missing horseman, the girl gave rein to Wanawish and sped furiously over the smooth-packed road.
Ronan was still some distance away when Cogewea came in sight of the tall elevator of the flour mill, with its gray roof and the smoke belching up in a dark column through the clear air. As she drew near, the twelve o’clock whistle, deep and sonorous, bellowed a respite to the toilers, both white and Indian. Some hurried to homes in the little village for their noon-time meals, while others sat by the creek with well filled lunch boxes. A few with more extravagant tastes, repaired to the one hotel, conducted by the same party who controlled the store, post office and livery barn—the “Father of Ronan,” as he was commonly called.
Wanawish sped across the bridge, pressing hard on the bit as he was reined in at the hostelry. Cogewea sprang to the ground and was met by Densmore. Ordering her horse stalled next to his own, he accompanied her to the dining hall. He selected an isolated table and sat so as to command the door. His nervous movements and unusual self-interest, drew the attention of diners and there were low whisperings of:
“Somethin’ doin’ with them there couple!”
The meal over, Cogewea thought that Densmore exhibited unusual haste in mounting and being again off. They galloped through the “Lane”; nor did they slacken pace until near Crow Creek, where they met a train of “freighters” from Ravalli. The high seated wagons were piled with merchandise, and were strung along the road for a considerable distance. Some had trailers and were drawn by six and eight horses. Passing these, the elopers again quickened pace, coming to the big flat. Small lakes, where wild geese and ducks disported, enlivened the scene. The long necks of the birds would momentarily disappear under the surface, as they grouped for food along the shallows. Shacks, the initial domicile of the energetic homesteaders, dotted the landscape. Herds of cattle and bands of horses grazed about the plain; the latter sometimes disturbed by the flying pair. One magnificent stallion, with ears erect, gazed at them and then snorting wildly, kicked heels in the air and chased his protégées in a stampede across the far reaches of the prairie. The proud monarch ever hung in the rear, urging the laggards with stinging teeth-nips, until all were lost to view.
Down the lower road to Post Creek, the two rode at a slower
