Cogewea, the Half-Blood

for the ranch. He would warn Jim! he determined. It was not wholly that he cared for his foreman’s feelings, but for the girl, whom he had learned to love as a close friend. For her and her family ties, was he now dashing across the wastes, reckless of lurking badger holes. He could not, somehow, recall that he had ever trusted the smooth-voiced stranger who had come to the ranch only as an indifferent rider, and who was now playing a role in the lives of so many of his best friends. As for himself, the word “home” was almost unknown until, as a wanderer, he came among the breeds at the H-B. There he had been taken in the family circle as one of them. He had but a dim recollection of a broken home in the far away Trans-Alleghany, where his mother had been but a dream-parent, and where an only sister had been laid away on the sunny hillside. Was it any wonder that visions of the obscure little cabin among the hills of the romantic Monongahela, now recurred to him and in his rough, though sympathetic bosom, memories tender had sprung? In his slow speech he had never shown appreciation for the half-blood family, but deep within that manly nature, there burned a latent fire of amity which even the Valley of the Shadow might not dim. This was why Silent Bob’s face appeared stern when Bill spoke of his surmises, and this was why he had determined, if possible, to save the girl.

As Bob scaled an intervening ridge and came in sight of the ranch house, the smoke from the chimney rose in the air like an Indian signal. The far-stretching Pend d’Oreille was deeply tinted with blue. He saw a rider dismount at the corral, but before he reached there, the foreman was on his way to the bunkhouse. He turned his horse and followed the tall Westerner, who paused at the door with one foot on the step as hoof beats drew near. He was surprised to see the Southerner, his horse reeking, pass the barn and ride directly to him.

“Why, hell‑o! there feller!” he accosted sharply. “What’s wrong? Ain’t you goin’ to feed your cayuse ’fore you take your own grub? You’d better care for him after the hard chase. It ain’t no way to ride the hell out of a hoss and then turn him loose hungry.”

“Wrong! You’ll darn soon know what’s wrong!” was the short response. “Look here, Jim! I ain’t a buttin’ in on no family ’fairs ’cause its non my biz’. It’s th’ little gal! what I’m thinkin’ ’bout! I hater⁠—”

“What you mean, Bob! What do you know of any ’fair?”

“I’m dam’ sho’ on one thin’! This here tenderfoot guy ain’t a fallin’ in love with th’ gal on ’count her beauty an’ goodness nor any thin’ like. It’s her dough! He thinks she has th’ hard ol’ kale! that’s what he does! Bill was jus’ tellin’ me on th’ high ridge as she pass’ a ridin’ like hell to’ards Ronan, where Bill’s ’lowin’ they’ll meet. I hater see this here⁠—”

“How does Bill happen to know so much ’bout all this?” broke in the foreman impatiently. “Is he a keepin’ record?”

“ ’Cause him an’ Rodeo has ’bin a stuffin’ th’ feller to th’ little gal’s money, cattle, hosses an’ lan’; an’ he went an’ fell in love to all her wealth what she ain’t got. Yo’re blin’, feller! Ain’t yo’ got no lamps? That’s what th’ guy’s af’er and yo’ a sleepin’ on yo’ job! I hater think what’ll hap’en when he fin’s thar’ ain’t no dough; I hater think what’ll come to th’ little gal ’way from frien’s.”

Regarding his mission finished, the Silent one turned his horse and rode to the barn. The foreman stood as if dazed, gazing off among the hills, muttering.

“And this is the endin’ of it all! After I givin’ the field to the guy, thinkin’ he really loved her and she loved him! Sacrificin’ myself rather than hurt the little gal’s feelin’s, I’ve stood like a dam’ fool a swallerin’ my ‘medicine’ and imaginin’ as how I was a man! But now! by⁠—”

A sinewy arm was flung aloft and a hand dropped to the hilt of his six-shooter. He whirled and strode to the teepee under the hill, where the aged woman was singing her “Song of the Love Herb.” Jim dashed aside the door-flap and sprang through the entrance. The chanting ceased, but the Stemteemä evinced no surprise at his hard set features and sharp voice, in such marked contrast to his usual address to her:

“My grandmother, I have something alarming to tell you! The Shoyahpee has played with the heart of the little grandchild! He thinks she has money and he only wants her for her supposed wealth and not that he loves her. They are gone! What shall I do? I might overtake them on the road.”

The Stemteemä stood to her full height, her hands upreached and clasped in mute agony. Twice she essayed to speak before her voice found utterance; as she discoursed in her own tongue:

“My son, you have brought me no news! Last night I saw in vision the grandchild and I knew that something fearful was to happen. To me the spirits revealed Cogewea, child of my daughter, suspended over the dark swirl of wild rushing waters. She was struggling in the grasp of a frightful monster⁠—a human serpent whose eyes were the glitter of gold⁠—whose voice was the clinking of silver. His face gleamed with delight at her torture; at her cries for the help that did not come. I was powerless to reach her, and my screams were as but the summer breeze in the moaning pines. At last I recognized the Shoyahpee⁠—he of the luring voice⁠—a vulture whose talons were rending my Cogewea, whose beak was buried in her weakening heart.

“The waters receded