A week had passed since the roundup outfit left the ranch. The lengthening days brought with them the indubitable evidence of an early and short lived autumn. The deep green leaves were transforming to mellow golden and the blaze of crimson glory. The grass was sere, with no indications of the usually short, velvety after-crop so peculiar to the arid range. The song birds no longer trilled among the pines of the Pend d’Oreille. Flown to the South land, their notes were supplanted by the discordant honk and scream of the migratory waterfowl, echoing along the winding shore.

Densmore often went shooting on the big flats where numerous small lakes were in evidence. To the surprise of all, he proved a successful hunter and bagged a goodly number of both ducks and prairie chickens along with an occasional goose. Badger, a noted wolfhound, and Bringo were his constant companions on these excursions, ofttimes chasing down the wily coyote and the fleet footed jack rabbit. Densmore had also become handy with the rod, bringing home fine strings of fish. Stemteemä was kept bountifully supplied with these delicacies, nor did the sportsman forego an opportunity of ingratiating himself in her favor. But the ancient woman received the gifts with stoic indifference and with doubtful gratitude. Perhaps it was more to please Cogewea, that she accepted the offerings, regarding them as a part of her daily food supply. The girl sometimes accompanied the donor in these presentation visits, acting as interpreter. The keen witted grandmother discerned that her grandchild was growing more fond of the hated Shoyahpee; and that she was also endeavoring to win her to regard him with greater favor. These symptoms she noticed with increased perturbation and had spoken to Julia on the subject. But the older sister, who had given the situation but scant or no thought during the press of summer work, was inclined to regard the possible alliance in a different light. She, herself, had married a white man who was good and kind to her, and consequently her racial prejudices were not so strongly pronounced.

Cogewea, in walking habit, stood gazing pensively from the window. She saw Julia, leading little Denny, enter the low doorway of the smoke-browned teepee just as the well proportioned form of Densmore emerged from the bunkhouse. He carried two fishing rods and had a trap slung over his shoulder. Coming up the path, he stopped at the gate, turning towards the house. Mary, the shy girl, sitting on the blanketed floor of the veranda beading a pair of moccasins, paused in her work to glance at her sister as she passed down the steps to join him. Mary could not like this Shoyahpee, with his smooth tongue and beguiling smile. She and the Stemteemä had many times counselled concerning him and Cogewea, but she had never revealed to the old grandmother how much the two were together. Resuming her task, the girl frowned with evident vexation as the couple strolled towards the river.

Densmore was discoursing on the charms of city life as they passed the teepee door. Inside, Stemteemä was crooning an Indian lullaby, which intoned musically with the sleepy baby prattle of Denny. The song was hushed suddenly. No bird carols greeted them as they approached the stream, and the squirrels and chipmunks appeared too busy storing their winter hoards to notice the intrusion. Following the bank for a mile or so, they came to a promising pool, deep and clear, at the base of an overhanging cliff. Here they prepared to cast.

“The kale that I land the first one,” challenged Cogewea as the two flies struck the water simultaneously.

“Taken!” was the quick acceptance.

Scarcely had Densmore spoken when his line cut the water in a straight drive, the reel spinning yard after yard of singing cord. Far out in the stream a silvery form leaped, scintillating in a radiant curve, sending up a shower of sparkling spray as the fish clove the water. The played out line slacked and the fisherman reeled in, minus hook and fly.

“King of the Pend d’Oreille!” exclaimed Cogewea. “How gamy! You⁠—”

Her own line spun with a musical purr, and deftly handling the reel, she slowly brought the stampeding salmonoid too, in a wide, sweeping circle. The battle was on, but with a skill attained only through experience she finally landed a shimmering beauty of rare size.

“Lost! Shoyahpee!” she taunted. “Lost two ways; your trout and your wager.”

“I will lay an even five thousand against your hand that the next is mine,” bantered the Easterner as he adjusted a new fly.

“I fade you!” was the prompt acceptance.

Again they cast and again she won.

“Please ante!” laughed the girl, as with a dexterous movement of thumb and fingers, the catch was rendered unconscious before removed from the hook.

“Would you have been as prompt in delivering, had I won?”

“An honest gambler is supposed to meet all obligations unequivocally,” was the evasive answer.

“Nor will the true sport deny to an unfortunate loser the opportunity of retrieving,” came the ready counter.

“Certainly! My digits and winnings against an even ten thousand.”

“You are mine!” was the confident response as the fly was twirled over the water for “luck.” “Now listen for the wedding chimes.”

The game was growing wild and fascinating. This time the Easterner lost only by the fraction of a minute.

“Betting is off!” declared Cogewea when Densmore proposed a still higher wager. “Those chimes are remote, for I don’t believe that you could redeem even now.”

“There is where your reckoning is faulty,” a crafty light in his eyes. “I am nothing near my limit. I can make good several such doubles.”

“Well, I make no more wagers today,” in a tone of finality. “My tahmahnawis tells me that the signs are bad. Besides, we have enough fish already. There are still a few left of your yesterday’s catch and it is wrong and wasteful to hook them just for misconceived sport. Indians take only enough for food and no more.”

“Wait a moment! I think there is a big shiner by that rock and I want him.”

“Aw! come on and don’t be selfish. Leave a few for the next fellow who may really need them. Let’s rest on this mossy log and watch the river as it glides on its way to the ocean. You can tell me something of interest.”

No further urging was required, and Densmore, reeling his line, joined her on the fallen forest giant. Spying a small land-toad, with the end of his pole he mischievously turned it over and over towards her. Noting the action, the girl exclaimed in agitation:

“Oh! Alfred! Don’t do that to the poor little helpless thing. Besides, it will bring a storm sure. Indians claim that if you place a frog on its back, it will cause a storm without doubt. There is an old legend which tells the story of Swa-lah-kin the ‘frog woman.’29 It is in connections with the sun; that if you turn the frog thus, she will look up at the sun and flirt with him as in the beginning. He hates her so badly that he will wrinkle his brow and a tempest gathers which wets the earth. This forces her odious flippancy to find shelter out of his sight.”

Densmore picked up a fragment of bark and getting the Batrachian on it, threw both into the stream with the observation:

“I guess with that cold bath the little miss will do no more flirting for a while. Anyhow it is too clear for rain today.”

Cogewea glanced upward. The sky was blue and limpid with the exception of a single diminutive cloud which appeared to draw nearer to the hot, blazing orb of day. Pointing to it, she admonished:

“I told you that she would bring rain. See that little cloud? It will unfold and spread until the heavens are covered in no time. It is her! the Swa-lah-kin of the myth. She has flirted with the Sun and we will get soaked. There will be a downpour swift and without warning. You have done the mischief and spoiled our afternoon.”

“I supposed that you were enough educated to know better than to believe all those ridiculous signs of your people,” chided the Easterner.

“What if I am slightly educated!” came the retort with a tinge of resentment. “The true American courses my veins and never will I cast aside my ancestral traditions. I was born to them!”

“And the Pend d’Oreille has its birth far up in the mountains, but it does not remain there; slumbering within the gorges and fastnesses of wooded slopes. Bursting from its gloomy confines, it grows into a thing of magnificent grandeur, averting stagnation by constant action.”

“But it is no less water than when it issues from its rocky defiles, only less pure. And is it really so enigmatic that the fluid should run down hill? You white people will never understand us. I think it quite easy for us to turn to the Shoyahpee’s ways, compared to his qualifications to become Injun⁠—honest Injun. I refer especially to his word of promise. He seldom keeps an agreement, while the word of a tribesman is law⁠—or was until he became contaminated with the touch of your civilization.”

Densmore made no reply. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket when a loosely folded letter fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, glanced at the heading, then tore it into fragments, scattering them to the wind.

“From your sweetheart?” queried Cogewea, with a mischievous smile.

“My mother,” he answered carelessly, but with a degree of embarrassment.

“Tell me of your mother. You have spoken but little about your family.”

“Why!⁠—I⁠—I thought that I had told you.”

“No, you never have. But you have learned all about my people, from Stemteemä to my very cousins. I have never realized what it is to have a mother’s love. I was too young when she died.”

“I have one of the best mothers in the world! You would like her! Cogewea!” he exclaimed with sudden impulse, as he placed his arm about her. “I love you and some day I want to take you to her. Will you go?”

She did not resist his advances, but asked pleadingly:

“Do you think that your mother would like me? Would she really be glad; do you think?”

“Sure! little one! Why do you doubt?”

The plotter felt the girl tremble as he drew her closer. Was realization within his grasp? He had lied broadly, but what of that. There was pathos in her voice as she made reply:

“Because I am a breed!⁠—only part white. But few recognize my kind socially. We are often made to suffer from the ungenerous remarks and actions of those who feel themselves above us.”

“To the truly high minded there are no racial barriers. Why should you care to remain exclusively Indian? What is the incentive?”

“I have my Stemteemä and my sisters, besides other kindred ties. Then, there are the traditions of my ancient race.”

“But you can not exist on sentiment alone. With no vested or property interests to demand your continued presence, you should feel at freedom to see something of the world. I take it that there are no such bonds.”

“Sure! Not only my allotment of eighty acres of the finest of land, but I have⁠—Why do you ask?” she broke off suddenly, lifting inquiring eyes.

He stood the scrutiny with calculating coolness. She had very unexpectedly increased in value. Taking her shapely hand in his, he answered with apparent sincerity:

“I meant nothing. I am only anxious to make you happy. Listen! my little Injun sweetheart! I have plenty, all that you could wish for. I want to share my wealth with you. You won the wagers at fishing. Suppose we form a partnership and call it settled by me doubling your winnings?”

“I would not sell myself!” was the scornful reply. “Money cannot bring happiness. Too often its heritage is one of unfathomed misery.”

Densmore realizing his mistake, retrenched hastily.

“You misunderstood me. I am but endeavoring to show you that I care deeply and am anxious to be to you all that a husband should. If I could only hear you say that you care for me⁠—that you love me ever so little.”

He was straining her to his breast and he felt her responsive form quiver. He attempted to lift her warm lips to his own, but she held aloof.

“Cogewea!” he whispered, smoothing her raven tresses. “I love you to distraction! I am willing to meet you in every way that you desire. I will be Indian. Tell me more about your tribal customs. That marriage ceremony⁠—”

The girl, struggling free, started up in sudden fright. With arm outflung, she exclaimed in terror:

“Look! See how the frown of the Sun-god darkens the earth! He bends his shaggy brow over the portals of the West-wind and hurls his anger along the sky! He breathes! and the air is thick with anguish! It is the Swa-lah-kin! You did this!” she cried angrily. “You should not have turned the frog! Come! let us hurry home! We will be fortunate if we escape with only a drenching.”

Densmore’s eyes followed her outstretched arm and he leaped to his feet in amazement. The western heavens were overcast with a mighty canopy of black, billowing clouds, hurtling upward towards the zenith with appalling rapidity. The onslaught was swift and terrible in its silence. Only the faintest hum, like the smothered cords of an Aeolian harp struck by the softest zephyr, was audible. Never had the Easterner witnessed an elemental conflict of such awe-inspiring grandeur. Seizing their effects, they hurriedly started for home.

Gathering momentum, the storm came sweeping onward with lowering front; the chaotic cloud-rack, a sable wall blotting out the universe. The low, indistinct murmur increased in volume until the cadence became a mournful dirge in the pine tops. This was but a prelude. Murky with misty shadows, the wind, in one fell swoop enveloped the fugitives, nearly carrying them off their feet. Clasping hands, they struggled in the face of the gale now shrieking like a thousand Harpies about their bursting ears. Densmore’s hat went sailing out over the river, while Cogewea’s broad-brim fluttering, was held secure by feminine anchorage. Bracing hard, they made but slow progress and were still a considerable distance from home when the first spattering raindrops, like the skirmish shots of a hostile army, struck them. When within a hundred paces of Stemteemä’s lodge, the anguished heavens were rent by a lurid tongue of lightning, followed by a crash which seemed to rock the very earth’s foundations. The dreaded Thunderbird30 was abroad on the storm and at the gleaming flash of his eye and the booming crash of his ponderous wing, the rain descended in torrents.

“The teepee! the teepee!” screamed Cogewea above the roar of the tempest.

Densmore tore back the door-flap and completely soaked they stumbled through the opening. The interposition of the canvas walls against the sudden gale was most grateful. It was solace to hear the deluge beating against the swaying roof. The wings of the smoke-flue had been closed and the seemingly frail structure made entirely proof against the onslaughts of Thor. Not only Julia, but Mary was there and, what, with the two children sleeping among the blankets, the wigwam was well crowded.

Stemteemä spoke to Cogewea, her tone sharp and emphatic. The girl answered at length in Okanogan and without her accustomed blithesomeness. The little audience gave rapt attention as she narrated the frog incident on the river bank. The grandmother and Mary cast looks of displeasure at the Shoyahpee, but Julia appeared less impressed. The conversation was necessarily loud, because of the howling of the warring elements without, which seemed to increase the momentary violence. However, the storm ceased as suddenly as it began and the sun shone upon a drenched world.

After a futile attempt at gayety, Densmore departed for the bunkhouse; and the aged woman requested Cogewea to go change her clothing and then return to the teepee. She had a story of the past which she desired to tell her three grandchildren.