The riders were in the hills to capture a few stray broncos, escaped from the general corral. They had succeeded in chasing them into a cunningly constructed “blind” in a wooded canyon where the colts were branded, and were now returning to the ranch in high spirits.

“Jim,” called Celluloid Bill, as he half turned in his saddle to face his foreman, “yo’ ain’t goin’ to let that there tenderfoot cut yo’ out from yo’re gal when he can’t ride a cayuse an’ yo’ the champeen bronco twister of th’ Flathead? Ain’t goin’ let th’ feller get th’ best of yo’ in th’ deal are yo’? He follers her aroun’ like a stray maverick of th’ range.”

“Sho’ thin’!” broke in Rodeo Jack with well feigned earnestness. “That there guy is plum good schemer. I knowed for some time now that he fell offen th’ cayuse an’ busted his elbow a purpose so to be with Jim’s gal. No ’scuse for his twistin’ his arm under his‑self as he did. An’ th’ gal ’pears mighty ’tentive to the guy. I never hit th’ love trail for any great distance, but I can see a danger signal when it flares up like sheet lightenin’ an’ big as half section of sage desert.”

“I hater see Jim get bad lef’; I hater see that there guy win. Mos’ wish we’d a dug a six-foot grave,” moaned Silent Bob.

“You may have a chance to dig that there grave yet,” growled the foreman, who usually stood these banterings in guarded silence. A man of few words and deep passion, this chaffing at this time stirred his inmost soul. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. What had come over Cogewea? She no longer rode out with him on the range as of yore, nor strolled among the river pines in the gloaming. He had not objected to her nursing the tenderfoot. Indeed, he was glad that she could do so; but his heart was bitter towards him for stealing her affections. What right had this man with his smooth, polished ways to step between them? Could he be sincere, or was it through revenge for the trick played him? In either case, Jim now determined to bring the affair to a climax at the very first opportunity. He had never asked the girl for her hand, but he would do so, and if she refused in preference for the stranger, he would take his “medicine” so long as everything was on the square; but if the guy was false to the little gal⁠—Jim’s face grew stern⁠—there would be a funeral at the Horseshoe Bend.

Jim’s meditations were broken by Rodeo, who, pointing to the east where Cogewea on Wanawish could be seen passing over a low swell, exclaimed with deliberate exactness:

“Behold, old skate! yo’ gal an’ alone for a wonder! Better hit up th’ breeze afore that there blond headed pal of yourn follers her like a calf. Any slow bird can get the mornin’ worm but it takes th’ swift winged hawk to capture any thin’ worth while.”

“Dam’ the feller!” retorted Jim in a burst of temper. “If I know my own name, no pretender that can’t ride is a goin’ get her.”

“Aw hell! Yo’ talk like yo’ mean business!” flung Rodeo with provoking sarcasm. “Talk is cheap! It takes money to buy a bottle of bitters.”

“You bet I mean it! Old Jim don’t waste no time a boastin’.”

“Gwan! Yo’ worked aroun’ them there corrals so long, feller, yo’re startin’ a peddlin’ their dust.”

“You’ll see! If somebody is doin’ me dirt, there’ll be somethin’ stirrin’ and don’t you forget it. I ain’t kickin’ if all is fair.”

With this the foreman, ignoring further jibes from his companions, swung off at right angles and headed for Buffalo Butte, where he knew the romantic girl would be admiring the sunset. He rode at a hard pace. He was mad! desperately mad to think that the fellow who could not ride should come along and splash into the affairs of the best rider of the Flathead, and take from him his girl.

But as Jim rode, his anger abated. The cool evening breeze fanning his hot brow, mellowed the hatred that rankled his brain. The world grew more pleasing. Charity, the greatest of divine attributes, swept bitterness aside. Surely Cogewea could not love the polished stranger. Had she not left him and ridden alone to the hills? Perhaps he would find her willing to listen. What girl could afford to ignore the hand of the best rider of the Flathead? And when this brown nymph did accept him, there would be fiddlers and an old fashioned dance at the big log house. No waltzes nor two-steps, ’cause he couldn’t do ’em. Only the quadrilles and the “Virginia hoe-down” of other days; with a “clog” by Rodeo Jack. There would be a jug of “tangle-foot” to complete the festive joy. There would be no starched guys from town with white shirts, stiff collars and plug hats, with hair all parted in the middle. None but cowpunchers with gaudy shirts, and with silk handkerchiefs about their necks; and the old maid homesteaders from out on the flats. The enamored foreman imagined that he heard the caller yelling:

“S‑w‑i‑n‑g! yo’ pa’‑d‑ner!”

and:

“Don’t forget that purty little gal,
The gal yo’ left b‑e‑h‑i‑n’ yo’!”

And the light step to the tune of the “Red River Jig.”

Thus the bronzed rider dreamed, his stoical features softened by that most refining of emotions⁠—love!

Cogewea had galloped across the intervening miles of flats to the foothills. Here she slackened pace and climbed the steep ridge to the summit of Buffalo Butte. Dismounting she left Wanawish, with a lariat trailing from his neck, to feed on the bunch-grass, while she mounted a large rock, where she had often reclined. The glow of the setting sun lit the western sky with the ruddy sheen of a prairie fire. The splendid Flathead valley lay below, while the mighty Rockies, like Cyclopean battlements, towered in the east. Cogewea gazed enraptured. A vision of the dim misty past rose up before her. The stately buffalo roved in the distance, while the timid antelope stood sentinel on the neighboring heights. An Indian village on the move, wound its way like a great mottled serpent over the crest of the highest ridge. It reached the brow, where each separate horse and rider showed in sharp silhouette against the horizon, then vanished over the crest. The girl arose and stood as in a trance. Slowly, with outstretched arms she whispered.

“My beautiful Eden! I love you! My valley and mountains! It is too bad that you be redeemed from the wild, once the home of my vanishing race and where the buffalo roamed at will. Where hunting was a joy to the tribesmen, who communed with the Great Spirit. I would that I had lived in those days⁠—that the blood of the white man had not condemned me an outcast among my own people.”

Cogewea sank down, burying her face in her hands. A half suppressed sob burst from her lips, convulsing her slender form. In silence she remained as the evening shadows deepened about her. She had often stood upon this butte at the close of the summer day in dreamy sadness, but never had she felt so lonely and forsaken. The form and face of the white man constantly intruded upon her vision. She had thought to ask Densmore to ride with her, but some impelling influence had deterred her. Did she really love him? Did he love her? The warning of the aged grandmother was troubling, and in sheer desperation she had fled to the solitude of her old haunt, the wild, lonely butte. Her sobbing was broken by:

“What is it, Sis? What troubles my little squaw?”

Startled, the girl looked up. Jim was standing over her tenderness depicted in his usually stern face. She did not answer and he repeated, his hand mechanically hovering about his pistol’s grip.

“Tell me! Cogewea! what is wrong. Has that there tender⁠—”

“Nothing! nothing Jim! only you have spoiled my evening hour.”

There was a piteous attempt at a smile and her eyes, tear-dimmed, turned from his and gazed out over the now shadowy valley. Jim, touched by her visible emotion, stood irresolute for a moment and then asked simply:

“How have I spoiled it, Sis?”

“By coming here when I wanted to be alone. Why did you come?”

“I came ’cause you have no time for me at home, only for that there white man. I want a chance to talk to you without someone buttin’ in on me. I saw you crossin’ the flat and I was lonesome for you. I most had to come. Do you really care ’cause I spoiled your evenin’?”

“Not exactly since you are here,” she murmured faintly.

“Now, Sis! if you care, why, I’ll go away.”

These last words came more as a plea. They touched the heart of the sensitive girl. She turned to him with a smile of old.

“No Jim! I do not want you to go. Stay and ride home with me. I was just kidding you. I would not hurt my big brother’s feelings for the world. I think too much of him.”

“Will you ever care for me more than you would a brother?”

“That is the most that any woman could care for a man. What more do you want of me?”

Her light bantering made him desperate and he blundered:

“Cogewea! Sis, I want you! I want you to marry me and you must not say no. Tell me that you will. I cannot take no!”

The girl looked up in surprise. This was the last thing that she had expected from the man facing her and asking for her hand in his own rough way. This man she loved only as some big, kind protecting brother. She sympathized with him for the blood ties of the breed, and here he had misunderstood her.

“Well, I be doggoned Jim!” she at length exclaimed in evident embarrassment. “I hadn’t the least idea that you cared for me in that light. You sure have surprised me! I always thought that it was only a brother’s love you had for me. I am sorry that I have nothing more than a sister’s love to offer you in return for your devotion. I love you as a big brother and no more.”

“Brother hell! Then who in blazes do you love?”

“No one that I know of.”

“Are you sure Sis? Do you mean it good?”

She did not answer and manlike, he took it for granted that she was not sure of her own mind. His soul was tortured with racking uncertainty. He was like an animal at bay⁠—was going to fight for what he regarded his own. He questioned eagerly.

“Then you⁠—you don’t care for that there feller⁠—you don’t love that there tenderfoot guy?”

“Why! I⁠—I⁠—like him.”

“You do! eh! Have you only a sister’s love for that there guy too?”

Cogewea’s mind was busy; she was fighting for time. She knew this man of the range too well to trifle with his sincere heart.

“No⁠—no!” she said slowly, “I do not love him with⁠—”

She hesitated in utter confusion. The steady gaze of the Westerner disconcerted her and her eyes again sought the refuge of the gloaming.

“And if that there feller asks you to marry him,” continued Jim in a voice pathetic in its earnestness, “what would you do about it?”

“Is it information that you are after?” she asked with a degree of impatience.

“Sis! I just want to know if I will ever have a chance⁠—a show⁠—some of these days; or some time?”

“Listen! Jim! let me tell you. He will never seek my hand. I know this, because of my blood. He is of a very proud family and I am a breed. You understand the situation. Of course I do not consider myself inferior to him even if I am a ‘squaw.’ But that is why I say he will never ask me to be his wife, even if I did care. It is a cinch that I will never propose to him, and should he ever ask me, I would refuse.”

“Do you think, Sis, that you would? Do you⁠—”

“Yes, because he is a white man, and I am an Indian, or half, rather.”

“Then you think that is a good reason? I’m glad, but lots of Injun women marry white men.”

“Yes! I do think it a good reason. You know how sensitive we all are about our Indian blood. No difference how little we have of it, it seems to stick in our minds. If I was to marry a white man and he would dare call me a ‘squaw’⁠—as an epithet with the sarcasm that we know so well⁠—I believe that I would feel like killing him. That is my reason. Should I marry my own kind, he would never throw my Indian descent in my teeth.”

“Then there may yet be a show for me?”

“No! Jim! never! You must give that up. Dismiss it from your mind. I cannot love you in the light I should want to love a husband. Too many homes are ruined; too many lives are blighted because of the lack of love at the fireside. It is the only element which will prevent husband and wife from drifting apart. Love is essential to the perfection of every life and when denied at home, will be sought elsewhere. I will never marry a man unless I love him and he is of my own kind. Money will never buy me. I’d rather die unmarried than sell myself for the glitter of gold⁠—the gold which is so rare among my own people.”

Although Jim’s heart ached in every fiber, he showed no visible perturbation. With a forced laugh and a wave of his brown hand which swept the valley, he said:

“And here! out on this here flat, we have old maids by wagons full. They’re lonely and maybe dyin’ for somebody.”

“Yes! they are an industrious class of women and mostly schoolmarms all making their own living. Why don’t you marry one of them? You would be ahead by a broad hundred and sixty acres of land; could afford to quit punching cattle, settle down and boss your own domain.”

Jim picked up a small stone and threw it far down the steep ridge before answering. His attitude was melodramatic.

“I might marry one of them if they’d ask me. But I’m afraid I’d drown her if she ever happen to call me a ‘buck.’ I’d sure be spectin’ ’mestic complications! None of them there schoolmarms could ’preciate the best rider of the Flathead.”

“Of course not! It would take a real sport to do that. If you depend on your riding ability to win a sweetheart from among those ‘Missourians’; you will sure die of a sour crop.”

“Sis! I’ll never marry anyone if not you!” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “And listen to what I’m tellin’ you! If that there white man takes you ’way from me and I find he is playin’ you false⁠—and I think he is⁠—I sure will leave this feller’s mark on him⁠—Savey?”

This speech was delivered in a low even tone and as he spoke, the Westerner’s hand touched the hilt of the six-gun at his hip. Cogewea’s breast thrilled with a sickening fear. All the warnings of the Stemteemä and her own wavering doubts concerning the Shoyahpee, came rushing through her mind. Her voice was tense with piteous anguish as she pleaded.

“Oh! Jim! You do not mean that he might be false? You cannot mean that you would kill him? You are only guessing at a wild improbability. It is impossible. You are taking chances!”

“You bet I mean both! Straight goods, Sis!”

“Then James LaGrinder, I will never marry. Never!”

Was she sincere? She doubted herself. Jim stood impassive, arms folded and gazing out over the darkening Flathead.

“Let’s hike for home,” she exclaimed. “It will soon be dark and here we have been chewing the rag for an hour.”

She jumped off the rock and began coiling her lariat. She tied it to her saddle, mounted Wanawish and started down the steep declivity. Jim rode in her wake a rejected suitor. He pondered!

“She loves no one and may yet come my way. I can afford to wait. She can’t love that there eastern guy⁠—a feller who falls off a hoss so soon.”

But his newly awakened resentment for Densmore, he could not banish, nor did he try to smother it. Brooding, he now hated him. He felt that he was false, not a true man. There was bound to be an accounting sometime; a reckoning when Cogewea would learn of his true character. Until then, he would abide his time.

Silently the two wended their way down the bluff trail. When they reached the flat, with hardly a word they spurred into a gallop homeward. Their thoughts were disturbing as they rode through the gloaming. These were of the tenderfoot, who had come into both their lives. The lonely cry of a night-bird, and the plaintive wailing of a solitary coyote in the distance, seemed fitting to perturbed mentality. They arrived home to see Densmore returning from an unsuccessful fishing trip. Mary, the timid, fair-skinned half-blood, was beating a tin pan, a belated supper call ever welcomed by the hungry riders.