The hot, sweltry days of August were closing. The tenth of September, which marked the opening of the great fall roundup⁠—when the riders of the H-B would remain in the saddle from morning till night⁠—was drawing near. It was Sabbath, and the ranch home was almost deserted. The boys, arrayed in brilliant shirts, with flaming silk handkerchiefs knotted loosely about their necks, had departed early; some going to Polson to play monte with the Kootenais, while others headed for Sloan’s Ferry, a favorite resort of the rangers some miles down the river.

The boys surmised that Silent Bob had a new girl, a homesteader out on the flat. Seemingly he did not care to go with them of late, but dragged behind, ever managing to get lost on the trail. He was beginning to wear fancy ties and to take unusual care of his Sunday-best-clothes. The boys also remarked that he stopped at a certain lonely shack, where his sorrel stood at the wooden gate till sundown every Sunday, before he ever thought of going home. They knew not her name and with all their joking they got nothing more from Bob than a slow:

“Aw! shucks! I ain’t a castin’ no ropes for any schoolmarm troubles. I hater think of bein’ tied up for life; I hater think of bein’ bossed by a Missourian.”

Jim had manifested but little interest in this particular excursion. He felt “kinder knocked out” and wanted to rest. Celluloid Bill urged:

“Better come on with us to town to skin the Kootenais. We’ll bring home a jug. They say that there bootlaiger has a big supply cached, an’ th’ Gov’ment ossifers cain’t locate him. But by heck we can! Come on! don’t buck! Yo’ ain’t got no colt to home yo’ ’fraid of losin’ have you?⁠—old sox! Yo’ ain’t scared somebody corralin yo’ slick-ear, are yo’?”

At this sally the boys all laughed and Jim, unable to withstand their banterings, proceeded to saddle his horse and join the crowd, growling with ill concealed annoyance:

“It will take a durn’ good roper to corral the colt that the best rider of the Flathead can’t get his lariat on. You savey that?”

Cogewea stood on the veranda and saw the gay cavalcade as it streamed from the barnyard, the horses cavorting and the riders swinging their sombreros, yelling with exuberant abandonment. She noticed with what grace and ease Jim sat his saddle. She admired his strength and skill and could almost love him⁠—but for the white man who had come so strangely into her life. For all of the foreman’s fierce temperament, he had never shown her the least disrespect. On the other hand, he endeavored to augment her happiness by sharing her troubles. His rugged, uncultured exterior was offset with a well meaning heart and a deep loyalty to friends. The girl watched the boys until they swung onto the upper road and were lost to view behind a curve. She then started for Stemteemä’s lodge, but met Densmore as he emerged from the bunkhouse. His arm was no longer in splints, and he had several times ridden out on the flats, always careful, however, to have a gentle horse. Cogewea accosted him:

“Why didn’t you go to town today?”

“Because I wanted to see you; and⁠—and perhaps you can prevail on Stem⁠—Stem-tam⁠—your grandmother to tell the promised story.”

“Is that really why you stayed?” she asked in doubting tones.

“Well⁠—the boys do not appeal to me and doubtless I do not appeal to them. I am not in their class and they naturally deem it quite a joke to make it ‘hot for the tenderfoot,’ as they are pleased to call me. There is the foreman. He does not like me and I am sure that I am not in love with him. He tried to get me killed,” continued the Easterner bitterly. “He knew that I could not ride a horse that the most experienced riders here are unable to back.”

“Oh! you are mistaken!” retorted Cogewea with a tinge of resentment. “While the other boys may not stick Croppy, Jim can do so easily.”

“Perhaps! but I do not believe that he can, from what I have heard about that horse. But even so, that does not excuse him from trying to get me killed.”

“Jim did not try to get you killed! With the deep, soft mulch of the corral spread like a great pad over its entire breadth, there was no special danger of fatality. The same joke had been played often and you were the first to meet with more than a scratch. Jim was sorry enough and did all in his power to make amends. He has the best of hearts,” she concluded with a suspicion of anxiety in her voice, “but I would not unnecessarily antagonize him.”

Piqued and disappointed at her attitude, Densmore replied with a degree of warmth:

“Why! you speak as if I were entirely dependent and helpless!”

“No, not that! but you do not understand a cowpuncher. They are the truest of friends when you are one of them; only you cannot be too careful. Do not incur needless enmity! Nothing is to be gained.”

Not fully comprehending the situation and stung with what he regarded open partiality on the part of Cogewea for the dusky foreman, the Easterner felt a smothering rage toward Jim. Could it be that this lowbred rope thrower was barring the way to his desires? Desperate, he declared heedlessly:

“Alright! You may be correct, but we’ll see. I did not start the feud, and there are different ways by which it may be ended.”

A thrill of apprehension passed over the girl. Jim’s declaration on the Butte came to her with chilling vividness. It was indubitable that should Densmore blindly cross the fiery breed, a tragedy was likely to ensue. But nothing was to be accomplished by argument, and glad of an excuse to dismiss an unpleasant theme, she exclaimed with a return to her old-time gaiety:

“Oh! I forgot! You wanted to hear the story promised by Stemteemä. I will run and see if she will tell it now.”

With this, she sped down the slope and soon returned with the information that they could go to the teepee within a half hour; that the aged woman would then be ready to talk and would tell of her people of an earlier day. Cogewea went into the house to procure a great, silk handkerchief to present to the grandmother, while Densmore took a chair on the veranda to await the time of going.

The Indian is a strange race. Most of the old people do not make use of English, although the majority of them understand many words and can speak them but will not do so unless absolutely necessary. If alone with the whites, they will talk if occasion demands; but if in the presence of the younger Indians, they can hardly be induced to do so. They are afraid of being laughed at for mistakes made. They dread ridicule from their own kind far more than the mockery of the alien. Recognizing the linguistic ability of the educated youth, it is expected of them to assume the role of interpreter.

The Stemteemä was no exception to this rule. It was when she lived on the banks of the Columbia with her three little grandchildren, and it was midwinter. A fringe of ice covered the stream along the shore, leaving an open channel in the center. The ice was very unsound, with many air-holes in evidence. A couple of young men came from the town to fish. Going out on the ice, they became fearful and returning to the shore, came directly to the teepee. When the children saw them, Cogewea proposed to her sisters, Julia and Mary, that they pretend not to understand English, to which they readily agreed. The visitors called at the doorway to know if the ice was safe and if there were any fish. To this, the children stared blankly and the grandmother scolded them for not informing the men that the ice was bad and that they would get drowned should they venture on it. Cogewea countered by asking why she did not do it herself, if she understood what was wanted; to which she replied:

“I can speak when I have to do so. But what did you learn the language and books of the pale face for? They do no good unless you make use of them when needed?”

The strangers, supposing that they were not understood, and after commenting on the dress and appearances of the teepee occupants, turned back to the river. Cogewea had meant to warn them before reaching the danger zone, while her two more timid sisters had fled in hiding. The grandmother raged and threatened, then growing more perturbed, rushed to the river bank, calling and waving her arms in frantic signals. The fishermen looked back, laughed and continued farther out on the ice. Cogewea was on the verge of calling to them, when the old woman let loose a jargon of English, which proved effective, if not in real classic style. She saved the lives of the venturesome boys, who often visited at the lodge after that.17

If anything is to be accomplished with an Indian, it is imperious that an agreement be made good; that an appointment be kept inviolate. Ever suspicious and wary, a broken faith is a very difficult chasm to bridge; and knowing this Cogewea saw to it that they were not belated at the lodge. Entering, they found the occupant sitting on a bedding of blankets. At the girl’s prompting, Densmore shook hands with the aged woman and then sat down on a buffalo robe which had been placed for him. Cogewea took place at the side of her grandparent, and after an interval spoke:

“We have come to hear the Stemteemä tell of other snows; when the tribes were strong, and of the coming of the Shoyahpee.”

Unhurriedly and in but few words the ancient squaw made reply. Cogewea explained that in conformity to an epochal custom, the grandmother would, before beginning her story, take a smoke, that she might be in the mood for talking. She must have time to gather her mind’s thoughts.

The girl then gently took the tobacco pouch from the trembling hands and bringing the small stone pipe from the same receptacle, filled it with the fragrant kinnikinnick; and lighting it, returned it to the smoker. During the ensuing “peace pipe invocation,” Cogewea, at Densmore’s request, elucidated on the mysteries of this rite of antiquity:

“Smoking is an exclusive characteristic of our race,” she said. “Its origin is scarce preserved in the dim legends of the past. The oldest pipes were straight, tapering trumpet-like tubes, made of clay or stone. Perhaps these were closely contemporaneous with the non-angular variety, showing the funnel-like orifice for both the stem and tobacco. Ofttimes these later pipes assumed fantastic forms, representing animals, birds, reptiles, human and mythical beings; many of them evidently of a sacred nature. They are found in certain old burial grounds and are claimed by some writers to have belonged to a different race than ours. But we were always here. I hate this latest supposition that we came from China or Japan. Neither of those people nor any other ever smoked until they had learned it directly or indirectly from us. They modeled their pipes after ours in a general way, though improved in form. The Indian recognizing this proficiency, copied the white man’s pattern, which is traceable from the primitive to the present conformation.

“We had our peace pipes and our war pipes and no important undertaking was ever attempted without a smoke-prayer. These were usually assembly, or council smokes; the pipe being passed from one person to another. There always have been, and are still some individual men who do not smoke; but in our tribe, as in many others, even the women indulge, but not universally. It is not uncommon to see a young woman drawing on a cigarette in just the same manner as a white society lady. But these ‘coffin-nails’ are of the white man’s inception, along with his multitudinous diseased adjuncts of civilization: whiskey, beer, wine and opium with attending crimes and ills. And to cap the irony of it all, he brings the ‘glad tidings’ of an endlessly burning hell where we are roasted for emulating his ‘superior’ examples.

“Smoking is the only ideal of our race that the Caucasian has deemed worthy of perpetuation. This, perhaps, is because it has been considered the worst of our vices. But the Shoyahpee converted it into vice. We did not use strong, straight tobacco and virus-infected wrappers. We employed a very mild and almost, if not entirely harmless mixture of bark and leaves, and among some of the tribes, a minute amount of tobacco; such as you see Stemteemä now smoking. Southern Indians used more of this narcotic plant than did their northern cousins, and here in the far northwest, we had none of it. Often the smoking material was slightly oiled by rubbing it with buffalo, or other melted fats. This was especially true of the plains Indians. The process improved the flavor and also augmented the fire-holding qualities.”

Further dissertation by Cogewea was interrupted by the Stemteemä, who, putting aside her pipe, spoke in a low guttural tone. She was ready to begin her story.