It was the first of June, and the great horse roundup was under way. More than a dozen cowboys were engaged by the H-B for the occasion and many of the ranchers joined since among the wild bands in the hills were numerous strays belonging to the scattered homesteaders. Every day they came until a score or more riders were congregated and fed at the Carter ranch. No wonder that Cogewea had but little time to read or dream, for she helped her sister with the housework and the care of the two little boys, Denny and Percy, tots of two and four years.

Before the sun had peeped over the far towering Rockies, the string of riders was disappearing behind the sloping ridge on the southeastern shore of the Pend d’Oreille. They rode in divisions for the hard chase. Since the opening of the Flathead Reservation to settlers it was no longer possible for the stockmen to keep large numbers of either cattle or horses on the open range. Even the buffaloes, owned by private parties, were, because of a Departmental edict, disposed of to the Canadian Government; barring a few that were too wild to corral. The several bands of horses still at large, were of the untameable class, fleet-footed and wary, requiring a combination of the best riders of the Flathead⁠—among whom LaGrinder was second to none⁠—for their capture.

After the last horseman had passed beyond the high ground, Cogewea turned to watch the sun rise over the embattled mountains. The lofty snow peaks, first turned crimson, then golden, as the fiery orb floated above the rugged barrier. In transport she stood until it had cleared the utmost pinnacle, and then turned to her sister who had joined her in an endeavor to plan the day’s work so as to make the ever-recurring evening meal, something from the ordinary. But this was not easy, since the riders usually returned in groups of two and four which rendered it difficult to arrange for any uniformity of order. They finally agreed that the best they could do was to “fill ’em up” on bread, beef, beans and spuds and keep a boiler of hot coffee ready. Both women were weary of the endless cooking and constant clatter of dishes, and no wonder! But perhaps their task was hardly less arduous than that of the poor devils who rode in the hot sun from early morning till dark, and sometimes far into the night. LaGrinder, the foreman, had but six hours sleep in three days and it was wondered how he kept going.

“I’ll be glad when the roundup is over,” said Julia. “LaGrinder thinks that it will last but a few more days.”

“I will not be sorry to see the windup myself,” rejoined Cogewea, as she sank into the nearest chair with something of a sigh. “Cooking and rope-throwing!” she continued musingly. “What a combination! The connections are manifest, but what of results? A few somebody’s wild broncs corralled; the sizzle and odor of the branding iron amid the smother of alkali dust. But it is all in the game! Life is a gamble, a chance, a mere guess. Cast a line and reel in a splendid rainbow trout or a slippery eel. Whirl a lariat and bring up a lordly racer already branded or a scrub cayuse unclaimed. I wonder,” she concluded dramatically, “what is on the range for me?”

“Mind that you rope a slick-ear!” laughingly replied her sister.

“Well, I am not yet riding in the matrimonial roundup,” was the whimsical retort, “nor am I still-hunting for any maverick.”

With this, the two sisters repaired to the kitchen and were soon busy clearing away the breakfast table. Cogewea could not understand herself. She could find no place in life. Her mind burned with an undefinable restlessness. Her longings were vague and shadowy; as something not to be attained within the narrow limits of her prescribed sphere. If she gazed at the mountains, she imagined that they beckoned her. Called to her as if she were a part of them. If she gave heed, there was disenchantment; a volatilization of a jocose dream. Like a stream she was ever gliding on without aim or purpose. Was it eventually to be lost in the ocean of infinity? Even so, were not all mankind in the same channel⁠—only that some sweep over white sands and smooth pebbles, while others dash among jagged rocks and splinter-edged boulders. Let hers be of the last, if only for an object. Those of the mud-current and murky tide were objects of commiseration.

But what is there gained by kicking? Our trail, set and marked before our advent in life, ends with a leap into the shadowy Unknown. Accept everything as inevitable and with a brave heart. Smile, even though there appears nothing for which to live. Why attempt to lift the mask of existence? Surely, in time we will realize and know.

Cogewea’s impulse was to be going, going, going; and with the completion of the morning’s work, she determined to take a gallop on Wanawish among the hills. This, perhaps, would put the phantoms to flight. She would also bring the mail, for they were expecting to hear from her sister Mary and the Stemteemä.3

With this resolution, the girl’s despondency vanished and she was humming a low tune as she entered her bedroom door. Within a few moments she reappeared, attired in a neat riding habit which portrayed her trim form most perfectly. Swinging a quirt, her silver-embellished spurs jingled musically, as gaining the veranda steps she turned to call to her sister cheerily:

“Goodbye! Take a few hours off and let things drift till I return. Plenty of time! The whole universe is chock full of time; with all eternity awaiting us just over the Border.”

“You want to watch your horse,” admonished Julia, as she came to the door. “John said only the other day that Wanawish bucks hard sometimes.”

“Why! you talk as if I were a tenderfoot and had not been raised among the bunch-grass cayuses. Using but one stirrup I can ride anything standing on four hoofs. You are wasting valuable time with your admonitions. Wanawish and I understand each other.”

“But Cogewea; you are too reckless in your riding.”

“Goodbye! my monitor,” she again hailed with a merry laugh. “Look for me to help you with the evening feed.”

With this parting flung over her shoulder, this girl of moods ran down the slope to the barn; her canine friend at her heels. Her spur fouled and she stumbled through the door, which stood ajar. Regaining her feet, she caught sight of the dog and scolded:

“Go back, Bringo! You’ll get licked up town and your mistress will have a fight on her hands.”

The girl had a habit of talking to her dumb friends and they seemed to understand. But Bringo did not always mind. His super-intelligence discriminated between an actual command and one of implied simulation. Turning to her horse she continued:

“Hell‑o! Wanawish! How are you, old chum? Do you feel like kickin’ up dust on the cross-trail today?”

The horse whinnied and pawed restlessly.

“Why, Wanawish! Hungry again? You had your oats not more than an hour ago. Your appetite is equal to that of a bronc buster.”

Giving the horse an additional measure of grain, Cogewea proceeded to saddle him with all the ease and grace of an experienced rider. Inured to the hardships of the range, but few of the boys could surpass her in this respect. She led Wanawish from the barn, and notwithstanding he was saddle-broke, he circled and pranced as if the process were entirely new to him. Some of the cattlemen claimed that he had once been an outlaw and had at least one man to his credit. But of this fact, his mistress was in blissful ignorance.

Cogewea galloped away without a backward glance and did not see Bringo skulking at a distance. The girl was naturally lighthearted and her mood had changed. The human mask was up, as she was wont to express it. She rode at a steady pace over the flats and coulees, her spirited steed pressing steadily on the bit. She was considered a good equestrian and no one knew it better than herself; but like all riders, she was somewhat nervous at times. This “ague” comes occasionally to the masculine puncher, even though possessed of the most iron courage. But a rider should be immune to fear, should never show the least indications of white-blood. Cogewea would not for the world let the boys know that she was afraid. It just happened that she was never thrown in their presence and that was why she boasted about her good horsemanship, as all range riders do. Boasting is a recognized weakness of the range.

Cogewea’s intentions were to go to the little town and get the ranch mail and return home without delay. When she reached Polson, she did not stop to visit but remounted and rode southward. She galloped till she came to the steep Polson Hill, then climbed more slowly. Reaching the crest she reined her horse to admire the scenery of the beautiful Flathead. The day was clear and cloudless. Looking northward she could see the Flathead Lake with its shimmering crystal waters. On the east shore the Rockies reared their lofty snow-covered summits, while the foothills blended with the tint of the trees growing among them. The western shore was fringed with huge hills and rocks with deep sloping gulches breaking through its banks. The Flathead River entered it from the north, while the Pend d’Oreille flowed out of it to the south. Steamers and launches could be seen going to and fro on its waters, carrying passengers and freight. No railroads had yet crossed the Reservation except in the extreme southern part.

The girl, remained several minutes lost in reverie; then turning her steed with a quick movement, she loped down the wagon grade. By making shortcuts she thought to reach home sooner than by the main road, and in so doing, she came to a high ridge. On its brow she reined in Wanawish in startled amazement. Not far down the slope was a prostrate form⁠—a rider⁠—while his faithful horse was feeding on the bunch-grass near by. Recovering from her surprise, she approached. It was James LaGrinder sleeping in the broiling sun. Her first emotion was of pity, knowing the hardships he had encountered during the past week. But the spirit of mischief predominated, and poor, tired Jim was to suffer humiliation at the hands of one for whom he would at any time have laid down his own life.

Catching his horse, she led it away, leaving the foreman to dream of the “one nearest his heart.” Thoughtless girl! Had she known that the rider, after a long, hard chase had dismounted to readjust his cinch, and, thinking to give his winded mount a few moments rest, had sat down only immediately to fall asleep from utter exhaustion, she would not have left him afoot so far from home. But ignorant of all this, she rode away elated. What a joke, she thought, for Jim to be obliged to walk six miles when he awoke.

Cogewea had proceeded about a mile, when there was an ominous buzzing among the rocks at the side of the trail. Before she could realize the situation, Wanawish, wildly snorting, gave a lightening leap and began bucking at a terrific rate. Caught unawares, Cogewea landed sprawling in the sage. Half dazed she sprang to her feet; unhurt save for a slight bruise on the arm. Wanawish, with another defiant snort, tossed his head and with Jim’s horse in the wake, fled towards home. Her frantic: “Whoa Wanawish!” had no effect and soon both steeds were lost to view over a swell.

Cogewea smoothed her crumpled hair, replaced her Stetson and brushed the dust from her skirts. Then shifting her quirt to the left hand and drawing a six-gun, she went in search of the cause of her mishap. She found it⁠—an immense rattler still coiled under the sage, a score of feet away. She essayed to approach, when an angry whi‑r‑r‑r warned her that familiarity would not be tolerated. She stopped, drew back a pace or two, her black eyes sparkling with resentment. Perhaps it was owing to her early mental training as well as to a naturally dramatic nature, that she addressed the serpent.

“Miserble creature of a despised race! Look upon the sun for the last time, for you are going to die. I know all about your standing with the tribes. My uncle has told me of your tahmahnawis power for doing secret evil to the people.4 Your ‘medicine’ is strong and my grandmother would not hurt you. But I am not my grandmother! I am not a full-blood⁠—only a breed⁠—a sitkum Injun and that breaks the charm of your magic with me. I do not fear you! Besides, I happen to know of the machinations of one of your progenitors in a certain garden several thousand snows ago, where he deceived and made trouble for two of my ancestors. An ancient book contains a law wherein is said something about a woman a bustin’ your durned head; and I am that woman. Yes, I understand about you a bruisin’ my heel. You have already done that⁠—only it happens to be my elbow. You have humiliated and disgraced me. Suppose Ji⁠—the boys knew of this? Take that⁠—you ornery cuss!”

Her hand shot out, followed by an explosion and the vibrating rattles flew into atoms. She continued:

“That was only to show my contempt for you; a sort of counting coup. You are a fine looking warrior without your warsong. No you don’t!” as cowed, the rattler uncoiled and began to glide away. “I will not spoil your handsome mug, but just”⁠—bang⁠—“decapitate you.”

The monster writhed in a convulsive twist, the head hanging by a mere shred of skin. The ball had neatly severed the neck close to the jaws.

Cogewea replaced the empty shell with a cartridge from her belt before restoring the pistol to its holster. Then stepping to a big boulder where the repulsive snake was hid from view, she sat down. She gazed along the trail where the escaped horses had fled. Chagrined, she felt that a few tears would be a relief. But she was not going to cry. She tried to think of some excuse to offer at the ranch for being afoot. It must never be known that she had been thrown. A cold nose against her hand, interrupted further musings. It was Bringo. The dog had kept out of sight and was chasing a “jack,” but came bounding at the sound of the shot. Bringo, looking into her eyes, expressed his joy by vigorous wags of his tail. Her hand dropped to his head.

“You dear dog! You are the best friend that I have.”

Bringo pressed closer trying, animal fashion, to comfort his mistress. The girl was touched and her lips quivered as she brushed the dust from his head. She felt his companionship.

“Wanawish is so mean!” with a little catch in her voice. “What shall I tell the boys? They will always laugh at me. Just think of falling off a gentle cayuse like Wanawish. And I am known as the best girl-rider of this entire region. What would Jim say if he knew? He is⁠—”

“Did you call me Sis? What you shoootin’ at? I nearly run my laigs off a gettin’ here.”

Cogewea, startled at the voice so nearly over her, sprang up to see LaGrinder standing on a brow of the ridge. Her cheeks flushed.5 Of all men he was the last she wished to see at that moment.

“My! you frightened me!” she gasped. “It’s a wonder you don’t let a feller know you’re coming.”

“Why! I⁠—I thought you saw me! that’s why you’re talkin’,” he answered with an aggravating smile.

“I didn’t see you! I was only talking to the dog.”

“Talkin’ to the dog? Well, do you call him ‘Jim’ when I’m out of sight?”

Cogewea made no reply.

“Where’s our cayuses? I saw you with them just before you got over the ridge.”

“Gone!⁠—I guess.” There was a suspicious quiver in her tone.

“Gone where?”

“Ho⁠—home, I guess.”

“How’s that Sis?”

“We⁠—l⁠—well! I⁠—I!”

“What is wrong, Sis?” Jim spoke kindly and the smile had left his face. “What is it? I heard you a shootin’.”

She tried to answer him, but could not. The lump in her throat prevented. She continued to smooth the hair on Bringo’s head.

“Aw! don’t ery over spilt coffee, little squaw.”

Womanlike, the tears came. She buried her face in her hands. Jim felt that he would like to take her in his arms, but he was well aware that such action would be resented. He repressed this impulse and continued, finally drifting into his usual bragging about his good riding.

“If you got spilt from Wanawish, why you should a been more careful of the devil. Didn’t you know that there cayuse was an old outlaw? Used to have him in a Wild West show, where I was ’rena boss; and when the company busted up, he was sold back in this here Injun country, cause no one could ride him but me. He was trained to buck from a colt and I’m a little scared of him yet; and here I’m the best rider a roun’ this here range; best on the Flathead. I won the champeenship belt in Wyoming, a couple o’ years ago, and I can beat any cowpuncher in the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Montana and Idaho. But I ain’t stuck on scratchin’ Wanawish when he’s a sowin’ wild oats, which he’ll do when frightened or fed too darn well. He ain’t safe for any woman! Most bucked me off at the beef roundup last summer, when he got locoed at a rattler. Pitched like hell! and anyone else would have landed in the sage.”

Cogewea’s tears were gone. Jim’s “medicine” was generally consoling, but she deemed it unnecessary to tell him the particulars of her mishap. In feigned disgust she exclaimed:

“There you go again, Jim! I have often told you to quit your lying! That is your main fault and I’m not going to hesitate telling you of it. You are certainly entitled to the championship as the best liar this side of the Halls of Congress.”

“Now little squaw, you can’t deny that I ain’t a good rider. Nobody ever talks different to old Jim! Savey?”

“I know that you are a good cowpuncher, but you get me all out of patience when you start those stunts about your ‘belts.’ I know that it is not the truth! If you would cut out peddling hot air, you would be all right. And Jim,” she continued warningly, “you want to quit calling me a squaw; especially before strangers. Do you hear? Some of these days I will murder you with a good heart! If you were not a half-breed yourself, you would never dare call me such names.”

“Where do you bury your dead, little Injun?” Jim laughed derisively. “Do you smoke-cure the scalps of your victims?”

“Jim! I could learn to hate you.”

The eyes of the enraged girl flashed ominously. The Westerner realized that he was on dangerous ground and hastened to retrench. His tone was most conciliatory:

“Come, Sis! I was only a teasin’ you. I didn’t mean anything; but only kiddin’. Let’s bury the hatchet!”

“The only way that I can forgive you, is for you not to tell what you know about me getting thrown from Wanawish.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all. And you had better not whisper it to a living soul; especially the H-B boys. This is going to be a secret between us two.” She caught the smile returning playfully to the suntanned face, and continued admonitively: “You better dare not anyway! If John knew that his foreman was in slumberland this time of day, you know what it would mean. Fired in a jiffy! Savey?”

Her threat only amused Jim. He gazed at her firm, intelligent face a moment with admiring eyes.

“Sis! is this all the secret we ever goin’ have ’tween us? Can’t we have somethin’ better?”

She scrutinized his appealing features, but her eyes grew cold.

“Don’t be an idiot! James LaGrinder. You know what I have always said! Say no more on the subject, if you want my friendship.”

“Friendship’s alright far as it goes, but it ain’t sometimes satisfyin’, There’s a cravin’ considerable different and I want to tell you how I love⁠—”

“Don’t Jim! Please don’t spoil everything by being foolish! I love you as a big brother and let it go at that. Men are such irrational beings! It seems that a girl cannot be their ‘pal’ but that they take it she is hat and belt in love with them. I hate men like that! I like those who know and understand.”

“Ain’t you a jumpin’ at ’clusions?” was the cunning retort. “I was only sayin’ as how I love to think maybe some time I’ll ’sperience that there cravin’.”

“Perhaps I did jump prematurely and without a visible landing,” she replied, langhing confusedly, “but the symptoms of an immediate ‘cravin’ ’ was so palpably manifest! However, I am sure glad that it is settled for we can now walk home with no misgivings as to a mutual understanding.”

Jim made no response as they started on the weary five-mile tramp to the ranch. His heart was heavy and he thought her absolutely heartless. But he felt sure that she loved no one else, and found solace in the reflection that he might yet “have a chance”!