Jim saw the shy-girl disappear among the willows near the river, a big knife in one hand and bearing an axe in the other. Wondering what it could mean, he sat down on a boulder to watch proceedings or await her return. He fell into a deep reverie, as he carved a stock into a grotesque human-headed sand-lizard. He was unconsciously droning a weird, improvised melody which he had heard among the riders:

There’s a wailin’ of the spirits
In the desert winds that blow;
There’s a plaintive trill of sorrow
In the friendless coyote’s howl.

There’s a sadness in the moanin’
Of the pine tree in the gale;
There’s a melancholia callin’
From the darkness of the plain.

Jim continued shaping his lizard. Into the eye-orifices he fitted two bits of agate, one red, the other green.

The foreman was in trouble of late. Twice had he essayed to convince Cogewea of Densmore’s double personality, and twice had he gone down in ignominious defeat. And now, in some mysterious way the accusing fragmentary letter had disappeared from his pocket the first night after its reception. A week had passed since his council with the Stemteemä, with no apparent progress toward severing the relations of the two. His every effort looking to this had only served to estrange the girl the more from himself, weakening the ties of a former warm and close friendship.

The nondescript carving was nearing completion, requiring only a few chips from about the half opened mouth, disclosing an array of formidable looking fangs.

Cogewea often took long horseback rides with the tenderfoot. Of these jaunts Jim well knew that the grandmother was not cognizant. He had thought to warn her, but could see no good in such a course. It would place him in the role of a spy⁠—at which his better manhood revolted⁠—and could serve no other purpose than to add to the growing burden of the aged woman’s grief! It was Fate! against which no mortal had ever successfully coped.

The lizard-body began to take form, as the artisan plied his blade without conscious endeavor.

He loved the girl madly! but she preferred another. Only bitterness and remorse, it seemed, could result from a further pressing of his claim. The wild appealed to his nature, and he half wished that he might leave the region now so rapidly being settled; leave and never know or hear of her living with the hated Easterner. Arizona flashed through his mind! His droning ceased, and the now completed gargoyle-lizard dropped from his hand. He wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, as he muttered under his breath:

“I’m a goin’! I’m a goin’ never to show up ag’in in this dam’ country! For the best rider of the Flathead to be made a laughin’ brunt of by a feller who falls off a gentle cayuse! I’m a goin’ soon as I see he gets her for good.”

The Westerner rose unsteadily from his seat. He started, as he caught sight of the fantastic object at his feet. Its baleful eyes, its gaping, tusk-studded jaws and its reptile-like extremities, for a moment held his gaze. Recovering himself with a near-shudder, he ground the thing under his heel, with the single ejaculation:

“Shoyahpee!”

The dull thud of an axe broke on Jim’s ear. Turning, he discerned a commotion in the clump of willows at the river’s edge. He made his way through the thick brush and found Mary busy cutting the long, pliant stocks, some ten feet in length and not over an inch in diameter. She had several of them ready bundled, all neatly trimmed of branches. As he approached, he accosted her:

“Well, what you doin’? What you slashin’ the brush for? Clearin’ land a ready for you and Frenchy to homestead?”

A blush suffused the shy girl’s cheek. After a moment of embarrassment, she looked up:

“The poles are to build Stemteemä a sweat house. She wants to take a sweat today. It is trouble! and nothing will so ease her mind as to consult her sweat house, where she communes with the Great Spirit.”

“Some new trouble?”

“No! Cogewea. She is afraid⁠—”

“Yes, I understand!” he interposed as the girl hesitated. “Let me have that knife! The axe is too heavy to cut this here small brush. Your han’s are too fine to be clearin’ woods. They’re made for some of them there music things that the Sisters play in Church.”

Surrendering the knife, Mary watched the foreman sever with a single stroke the slender growths. After a few moments, without a word she picked up some of the poles and started up the bank. Jim gathered the remaining armful and followed to a level plat only a few rods away, where the construction of the edifice was immediately begun. Everything must be according to the first guidance of the spirits in the long ago, otherwise something of a terrible nature might happen the votary.

Jim, assuming the more arduous part, deftly shaped a round, smooth pit about six inches in depth at a point in the ground floor where it would be just within and at the side of the low, arched entranceway. This he did while Mary gathered wood with which to heat the score of carefully selected stones to be later placed in the pit. With alternate layers of wood and stone, she soon had a roaring fire permeating the entire mass.

In the meantime, Jim had been busily engaged wattling the pliant poles into a cone-shaped net work, some four feet across and about three feet in height, with an arched opening of eighteen inches next the stone pit. The frame work was securely tied at the intersections with bark stripped from some of the poles. He covered the structure with bark from a fallen cottonwood among the river drift, exercising care that this roofing be entirely free of vents and crevices. Then procuring a shovel, he overspread the whole with four inches of dirt, packed firm by beating with his shovel blade.

The building was now complete even to the curtained doorway. Mary summoned the Stemteemä, whose eyes beamed, as she admiringly surveyed the shapely structure. Seating herself at the entrance, she sings a mystic spirit lay. Her snowy head sways in rhythm, as she waves toward the sun, now dipping low in the west. The dash of red paint across her forehead is in token of regard and high honor to the Spirit of the sweat house, which she is about to enter.

“Don’t you think them there rocks hot ’nough?” asked Jim of Mary.

“Maybe they are, although I have seen them hotter. The more hot they are the better Stemteemä likes it. She says that the sweat house favors the occupant with the good spirit, when its body is almost scorching⁠—that is the body of the sweat house. Let her judge of the proper heat.”

Jim sat musing for some moments and then spoke:

“There are strange things ’bout this here sweat house business, and I have seen some of it when I was a little chap. My grandmother used to tell me the old tradition which says that the twelve sticks bent in the frame of the sweat house are the twelve ribs of the Spirit God, and that these here ribs can understand what you speak or sing to the gods. He’s a lover of songs⁠—or of his own song⁠—which some Injuns know and can sing. If you sweat and he is pleased with your visit, as a rule, he will bestow on you some favor. Should your petition fail the first time, then try again and if he’s still not humored and pleased, continue your appeal. I have known Injuns who would ‘sweat house’ for ten or more days in succession before accomplishin’ their wish. Whatever it might be, they always got it. This is why the older people believe so thoroughly in the sweat house. They hold the structure, whether new or in ruins, sacred and a thing of reverence. Guess they have more devoted regard for their worship places than has the Shoyahpee for his, ’less it’s money somewhere.”

“Yes,” observed Mary, “the mystic pervaded all that was connected with the sweat house worship. A warrior would not permit a woman to enter his sweat house and if she did, he would never use it again. Neither would the man enter that of the woman, and each had to build their own. And, if several were taking the sweat at the same time, a medicine man or medicine woman, as the case might be, generally led in the songs to the Spirit-god. If the Indian believed that the sweat house spirit became displeased with him, something of a fearful nature would happen to him or his family. Should they escape, the death of his dog or pony might be resultant from the frown of the god. The successful hunter must consult the sweat house often.”

“Seems too hurtin’ bad that so much of the old beliefs is a dyin’ out,” remarked the foreman ruefully. “Many things connectin’ with the sweat house the younger Injuns of today don’t understand. The white headed tribesmen still hold sacred that which their race has practiced for centuries of snows. I’ve seen ’em who wouldn’t dare step on a broken stick once used in buildin’ a sweat house. The dam’ Shoyahpee has ruined the Injun life!”

The voice of the aged woman broke in on further colloquy. She desired to enter the lodge of the Spirit-god.

With a suitable stick, Mary began rolling the hot stones into the pit of the sweat house. They were landed safely but the third one, when drawn from the fire and come in contact with the air, shattered into fragments. Now there is an ancient belief that such mishap is a precursor of misfortune, loss in a gambling game or other adventure. But, on the other score, if you succeed in getting the stone placed intact, and at the same time make a wish for that which most concerns you, the omen may be regarded as propitious that you are favored by the Spirit-god, and that you will surely gain your wish. Sooner or later it will come true. Observing the breaking stone, Jim volunteered:

“Bein’ as the old time rules was busted in the buildin’ of this here cookin’ oven, makin’ it a sort of man and woman ’fair, the best rider of the Flathead is a goin’ to help with them there ash-biscuits and see what comes of wishin’ a good thing. If you had any wish on that there rock,” he continued, turning to the shy girl, “it sure went up in smoke.”

Mary laughed and denied having placed any prayer-wish whatever. She watched Jim, as with a short pole he selected the largest stone among the glowing embers. He slowly rolled the scorching boulder as it sizzled the damp earth and seemed to consume the brown leaves in anger. He muttered his “wish” in an undertone! The shy girl smiled, guessing well what it was. As the rock slid into place with those already in the pit, the foreman’s eyes expressed contentment and a smile disclosed two rows of well formed teeth. Mary turned to him in childish glee! For the first time since their acquaintance, he seemed near to her. She now regarded him as one of her own kind. He had not scorned the sweat house! He had not thrown aside the beliefs of his Indian forefathers, as had so many of the educated half-bloods. The books of the white man had not destroyed the earlier training of his mind. She exclaimed:

“Oh! Jim! You are favored by the Spirit-god! The sweat house knows that you are the one who made his body and warmed it, bringing life back into the form when only the bones of it were left;51 returning life to him who was once Chief of the Animal World; he who knows everything under the Sun-god. He was left here in the form of a sweat house, for the benefit of the Indian who might warm those ribs of willow. Thus, when the Red man goes to council him in his lodge, he comes to life and grants the worshipper a sought for favor. We understand such things and believe them as only Indians can. Your wish will come true!”

“Gollies, Mary!” was the rejoinder. “This comes near bein’ one on me! Hadn’t thought of no sweat house for years till today. Maybe been tryin’ too hard to be Shoyahpee, dam’ ’em!”

The face of the shy-girl glowed with strange animation, as with fire-pole poised, she answered:

“I do not wonder! This is the trouble, the fate of the average breed of today. They are encouraged to try forget their Indian ancestry, after they once learn the white man’s books and ways. They banish the idea of old tribal customs and laugh to scorn that which was sacred to the generations past. Some of the Indian system is bad, much of it is good; but it must all give place to that of the Shoyahpee, who arrogantly proclaims that of philosophies, his alone is worthy of emulation. Ignorant Bureau officials are helping in this! They know nothing of the good medicine of the sweat house Spirit, its power to cleanse both the mind and the body. I sometimes wish that they would take a good sweat themselves; for then they might do a cleaner business.”

Jim was surprised to find this girl, whom he had thought so averse to conversation, thus speak readily and eloquently on a subject of rarest interest. In reality, the discourser had been moved intuitively, an unconscious imbibing of the sweat house spirit. The teaching of the devoted Stemteemä alone had made this possible.

Jim now brought a pail of water from the river, to be used in steaming the hot stones. He then returned to the corrals, leaving Mary and the Stemteemä alone.

After his departure, the shy girl looked cautiously around, before starting one of the two remaining stones towards the sweat house, to be added to its fellows in a rounded, cone-like heap within the pit. Carefully she turned the stone over and over, as though something she wished was of grave importance. As the rock reached the entrance without mishap, a low, musical laugh escaped the grandmother, who spoke to her in their native tongue. Mary looked abashed, dropped her pole and joined in the laughter.

Stemteemä disrobed and slowly stepped into the cold river for a bath before entering the lodge of the Spirit. When consulting Him, the body must be clean. There was a special favor to be asked today.

With this preliminary dip, the grandmother crawled into the mind and body-cleaning sanctuary. Mary closed the door-curtain and sat undecided whether to enter also, when a song pealed from within. Sung in the Okanogan, it vibrates⁠—now high, now low⁠—swelling a mournful dirge on the passing breeze. The listening girl understands!

It is the Song of the Mountain Herb!
It is the Song of the Love Herb.
It is the Chant of mystic creation!
Growing on the highest mountain peaks,
It embodies the soul of the Love Goddess!
It is the Song to soften the warrior’s heart
When sung by his dusky love at the sun’s setting.
It is the Spirit Chant! locked in the Red bosom
To burst anew on the morning trail of a future life.
It is Enchantment!⁠—to the Shoyahpee unfathomable⁠—
But Magic sacred to the comprehending Indian mind.

An Herb, or of this element likewise, the sweat house can understand the love-plea of either maiden or warrior; that the heart may become as the melting snow.

Mary sat gazing out over the stream in abstraction. A face of the “silvery hue” seemed to be forming in vision, when she was disturbed by the under-rustling of twigs. She saw her sister part the willows and come silently to the embered fire. Cogewea stood listening to the plaintive, dirge-like invocation of the venerable petitioner, from within the now steaming sweat house. It was a plea to the Great Spirit⁠—through the Mountain Herb⁠—to change the heart of the Indian maiden, then being lured to a shadowy trail of sorrow by the deceiving Shoyahpee. The voice quavered to a sobbing sigh and then rose in a wailing cadence of wilder supplication.

The girl of the range was visibly affected. Reaching for the same pole that Jim had used in moving his boulder so successfully, she drew the last remaining stone from the coals. Very slowly and carefully she rolled it towards the blanketed doorway of the mystic sanctuary. Whatever her emotions, her face was imperturbable. One more turn and the entrance would be reached, when, with an audible detonation, the boulder flew in many directions leaving a visible vapor-puff. The eyes of the sisters met. With no word from either, Cogewea turned towards the house, haunted by the ill-omened sign. A spirit voice the while seemed to whisper just at her side:

“Beware! beware!”

“Can it be true!” she murmured. “It can not be true this old Indian belief in the sweat house.”

The weird chant of the Stemteemä again pierced the girl’s ear as she made her fearful way to escape the agonizing plaint. She half regretted having tempted the fire-rock sign. Why had it burst at the very last? If it only had reached the goal! But surely! there could be nothing in such an age-old superstition? He could not be false!

Cogewea entered the living room where she found Densmore awaiting her. Julia remained in the kitchen that the lovers might have more privacy. She favored the Shoyahpee, despite the innumerable warnings of the grandmother. To these she had been indifferent, attributing the opposition to extreme old age prejudices, and an unswerving tribal custom of formerly housing the maidens and watching over their every movement until married off⁠—always young⁠—in conformity with ancient racial pride. It was considered a reflection on the parents, should a daughter remain single for any length of time after reaching maturity.

Stoically hiding her agitation, Cogewea returned Densmore’s greeting and the two were engaged in low, earnest conversation. It was briefly arranged that on the following evening they would jointly visit the Stemteemä, and endeavor to gain her consent to their marriage; since the girl would not agree to a clandestine union, so vehemently urged by her companion.