Celluloid Bill and Silent Bob lounged lazily at the big rock on the high ridge overlooking the Buffalo Ranch. Their “blown horses” were feeding on the bunch-grass, after a hard and futile chase for outlawed cayuses. They had stopped for a rest. The wild herd could be seen as it fled across the wide stretch of range to the west. It disappeared, circling Buffalo Butte, to flash into view again on the opposite side. There the band halted and with high flung heads, watched the enemy at the rock.

As the riders again swung to their saddles, Bill’s quick eye descried a woman riding at an unusual swiftness over the flat to the south and on the road leading to Ronan. Something familiar about the figure held his attention and he drew his binoculars for a more critical inspection. A moment later he returned them to their case and turned to Bob whose horse stood abreast of his own:

“There goes Jim’s gal a racin’ ’cross th’ flat an’ I bet she’s goin’ to meet that there tenderfoot in Ronan; ’cause he said airly this mo’nin’ he was a breezin’ to the little town today not to be back till af’er dark. Ha! ha! Can’t fool ol’ Bill! He’s wise to that there soapy guy, who thinks the gal has dough. He’s a fallin’ in love with th’ cash ’stead of the little gal.”

Bill chuckled at what he evidently regarded as a huge joke. Bob was silent for a moment, his face serious as he gazed after the receding horsewoman. There was a touch of concern in his voice as he spoke:

“How’d yo’ happen to know so much ’bout th’ love ’fairs of that there tenderfoot guy?”

“ ’Cause his eyes went wide like sascers when I tol’ him how th’ gal had th’ kale an’ a plenty, too; an’ all th’ cattle an’ hosses she wanted. Made him believe nearly all the hoofs on th’ reservation was her’n, an’ he was dead easy. Fell like a log to it all! an’ I tol’ Rodeo to stuff him more, some ’bout her lan’ which he did an’ the fool went belt an’ buckle in love with all that there wealth she ain’t got; an’ th’ mavricks he thinks he’s a goin’ start brandin’ when the roun’up opens nex’ spring.”

Celluloid indulged in another low laugh, but receiving no response from his companion, he continued:

“An’ I bet they run ’way purty durned quick, ’cause they’re awful mashed! More’n Jim knows! There’d be hellerpopin’ if he foun’ out ’bout this.”

When Bill again glanced at Bob, instead of the expected smile on the suntanned face, he saw a knit brow and a firm set mouth. Without a word the Silent one turned his horse and started at a steady gallop for the ranch. He would warn Jim! he determined. It was not wholly that he cared for his foreman’s feelings, but for the girl, whom he had learned to love as a close friend. For her and her family ties, was he now dashing across the wastes, reckless of lurking badger holes. He could not, somehow, recall that he had ever trusted the smooth-voiced stranger who had come to the ranch only as an indifferent rider, and who was now playing a role in the lives of so many of his best friends. As for himself, the word “home” was almost unknown until, as a wanderer, he came among the breeds at the H-B. There he had been taken in the family circle as one of them. He had but a dim recollection of a broken home in the far away Trans-Alleghany, where his mother had been but a dream-parent, and where an only sister had been laid away on the sunny hillside. Was it any wonder that visions of the obscure little cabin among the hills of the romantic Monongahela, now recurred to him and in his rough, though sympathetic bosom, memories tender had sprung? In his slow speech he had never shown appreciation for the half-blood family, but deep within that manly nature, there burned a latent fire of amity which even the Valley of the Shadow might not dim. This was why Silent Bob’s face appeared stern when Bill spoke of his surmises, and this was why he had determined, if possible, to save the girl.

As Bob scaled an intervening ridge and came in sight of the ranch house, the smoke from the chimney rose in the air like an Indian signal. The far-stretching Pend d’Oreille was deeply tinted with blue. He saw a rider dismount at the corral, but before he reached there, the foreman was on his way to the bunkhouse. He turned his horse and followed the tall Westerner, who paused at the door with one foot on the step as hoof beats drew near. He was surprised to see the Southerner, his horse reeking, pass the barn and ride directly to him.

“Why, hell‑o! there feller!” he accosted sharply. “What’s wrong? Ain’t you goin’ to feed your cayuse ’fore you take your own grub? You’d better care for him after the hard chase. It ain’t no way to ride the hell out of a hoss and then turn him loose hungry.”

“Wrong! You’ll darn soon know what’s wrong!” was the short response. “Look here, Jim! I ain’t a buttin’ in on no family ’fairs ’cause its non my biz’. It’s th’ little gal! what I’m thinkin’ ’bout! I hater⁠—”

“What you mean, Bob! What do you know of any ’fair?”

“I’m dam’ sho’ on one thin’! This here tenderfoot guy ain’t a fallin’ in love with th’ gal on ’count her beauty an’ goodness nor any thin’ like. It’s her dough! He thinks she has th’ hard ol’ kale! that’s what he does! Bill was jus’ tellin’ me on th’ high ridge as she pass’ a ridin’ like hell to’ards Ronan, where Bill’s ’lowin’ they’ll meet. I hater see this here⁠—”

“How does Bill happen to know so much ’bout all this?” broke in the foreman impatiently. “Is he a keepin’ record?”

“ ’Cause him an’ Rodeo has ’bin a stuffin’ th’ feller to th’ little gal’s money, cattle, hosses an’ lan’; an’ he went an’ fell in love to all her wealth what she ain’t got. Yo’re blin’, feller! Ain’t yo’ got no lamps? That’s what th’ guy’s af’er and yo’ a sleepin’ on yo’ job! I hater think what’ll hap’en when he fin’s thar’ ain’t no dough; I hater think what’ll come to th’ little gal ’way from frien’s.”

Regarding his mission finished, the Silent one turned his horse and rode to the barn. The foreman stood as if dazed, gazing off among the hills, muttering.

“And this is the endin’ of it all! After I givin’ the field to the guy, thinkin’ he really loved her and she loved him! Sacrificin’ myself rather than hurt the little gal’s feelin’s, I’ve stood like a dam’ fool a swallerin’ my ‘medicine’ and imaginin’ as how I was a man! But now! by⁠—”

A sinewy arm was flung aloft and a hand dropped to the hilt of his six-shooter. He whirled and strode to the teepee under the hill, where the aged woman was singing her “Song of the Love Herb.” Jim dashed aside the door-flap and sprang through the entrance. The chanting ceased, but the Stemteemä evinced no surprise at his hard set features and sharp voice, in such marked contrast to his usual address to her:

“My grandmother, I have something alarming to tell you! The Shoyahpee has played with the heart of the little grandchild! He thinks she has money and he only wants her for her supposed wealth and not that he loves her. They are gone! What shall I do? I might overtake them on the road.”

The Stemteemä stood to her full height, her hands upreached and clasped in mute agony. Twice she essayed to speak before her voice found utterance; as she discoursed in her own tongue:

“My son, you have brought me no news! Last night I saw in vision the grandchild and I knew that something fearful was to happen. To me the spirits revealed Cogewea, child of my daughter, suspended over the dark swirl of wild rushing waters. She was struggling in the grasp of a frightful monster⁠—a human serpent whose eyes were the glitter of gold⁠—whose voice was the clinking of silver. His face gleamed with delight at her torture; at her cries for the help that did not come. I was powerless to reach her, and my screams were as but the summer breeze in the moaning pines. At last I recognized the Shoyahpee⁠—he of the luring voice⁠—a vulture whose talons were rending my Cogewea, whose beak was buried in her weakening heart.

“The waters receded and a lonely wood appeared. The body of the grandchild was bruised, her hair torn and tangled with the fallen autumn leaves. Then a mist passed, and I saw no more.

“I awoke singing the spirit-song, for the great Soma-ash-hee53 had spoken to me in the darkness. I was singing his song, and the song of the Mountain Herb which is strength for the Indian’s heart. Go now, my son! Follow swift on the trail for my Cogewea is in distress. You may not understand the dreams and visions of the old Soma-ash-hee woman who communes with that which is unseen, for the snows of such wisdom you have not yet reached. But go! And if the Shoyahpee has harmed the grandchild, destroy him as you would the poison-snake. Be quick! and the strength of the Soma-ash-hee will be with you!”

Jim made no reply, but darting from the lodge, he ran to the barn and threw the saddle on Diamond, who impatient of his daily exercise, was restlessly pawing in his box stall. Leading the prancing racer out he caught the saddle horn and vaulted lightly to his seat as the Bay Devil leaped away in an easy, measured glide. He was held in check by the experienced rider, for the steed’s endurance must be conserved for an indeterminate race. Silent Bob, watching his foreman ascend the slope and disappear over a ridge, soliloquized:

“Well I be dam’! He’ll sho’ly get his needin’s this time⁠—that there tenderfoot⁠—’cause ol’ Jim means biz’. Guess I’ll hit th’ grub pile! I hater be so hongry as a wolf; I hater be a cinchn’ of my belt so of’en.”

With this, the Monongahelian sought the kitchen where he was doing ample justice to the substantials set before him by Mrs. Carter, when Celluloid, Slim and Frenchy, all from the fruitless chase, entered. As Celluloid seated himself opposite Bob, he accosted that worthy:

“What made yo’ leave me all flared up ’bout what I said? A feller’d think yo’ was in love with th’ gal ’stead of ’spectable people. Wher’s Jim?”

“Guess it’ll be all off with that there tenderfoot guy,” answered Bob, ignoring Bill’s rather doubtfully meant sarcasm. “Ol’ Jim’s madder’n blazes when he lef’ while ’go. Thar’s pizen in the air! I hater know⁠—”

“What’s Jim mad at th’ guy for? Didn’t know he seen him since mornin’. Yo’ mus’ be all loco’d!”

“I tol’ him what yo’ said on th’ ridge ’bout th’ guy an’ th’ gal. Tol’ him⁠—”

“Bob, yo’re a durn’ fool!” interrupted Bill, anger in his voice. “What made yo’ go do a trick like that⁠—buttin’ in on love ’fairs like that? Yo’ should a kep’ yo’ mug clamped! It ain’t none of our put in.”

It was a long moment before the Southerner attempted reply. He seemed on the verge of choking, as he swallowed hard. Drawing a sleeve across his eyes, he muttered complaint about “that there pepper bein’ so durn strong.” There was a suspicious tremor in his tones when he did speak:

“Bill, it ain I am wantin’ to butt in on no body’s biz’! It’s ’cause I like th’ little gal an’ I want Jim to win in this here race. He’s her kin’; is truer’n hell an’ a plum good rider! No blood a mixin’ with that there money-hunter who can’t stick a cayuse. I hater see him get ’way with so good a gal; I hater see her get th’ wo’st of th’ deal.”

Celluloid was silent. He was suddenly made to realize the significance of the unintentional part that he had played in an unfortunate affair, the termination of which was as yet unforeseen.

“Do yo’ think there’ll be some shootin’ doin’ when Jim comes to them there pair?” asked Slim of the Foot Hills, who was fond of excitement. “Think th’ show wo’th travelin’ to see?”

“Sho thin’!” answered the Silent one. “I see blood in ol’ Jim’s eye an’ that means biz! No joke ’bout it; nuther! ’t’s sho’ goin’ be biz’! But what’s a use talkin’! I hater⁠—”

“Say yo’ fellers!” broke in Celluloid, turning to Slim and Frenchy. “Hurry an’ swaller yo’ grub! We’ll foller our foreman who’s gone to take his gal from that there cayuse-busted tenderfoot. There’ll be some little circus an’ maybe a grave-diggin’ social.”

“Jim don’t need no ’sistance a shoot-scrapin’ any guy, else I’d a gone with him,” volunteered Bob. “But if yo’-all is goin’, I’ll go ’long an’ see th’ ’formance.”

Hastily disposing of the meal, the riders ran to the barn where their horses were feeding. Leaping to the saddles, they were off up the long grade. Just over the swell, they met the belated Rodeo, who eagerly joined them, unmindful of his tired mount as well as the lankness under his own belt. It was no time to spare a cayuse nor consider a foregone dinner when a “shootin’-dance” or a “lariat-stretchin’ ” was in prospect.

Julia and Mary, the shy-girl, were standing on the veranda where they hurried when the boys left in such haste. They had watched them sweep over the ridge and pass from sight in a rolling cloud of dust, and were speculating on the probabilities of a tragedy, when, to their surprise, the Stemteemä appeared coming up the river incline. Only on important occasions did she venture so far from her lodge. She made her way slowly, leaning on a thornwood cane, and as she drew near, the low chant of the Soma-ash-hee was bourne on the breeze. She spoke directly to Julia:

“Your ears were closed to my words of warning,” she began, in low earnest tones. “That the snows have left my hair withered, does not bespeak a tottering mind or that the vision is less clear. The white man’s books I know not, but the wisdom of the spirits has been given me. Walking where there is light, I stumble not in the dark. I understand the good and the bad as traced on the face of every man. Words are written on the brow, in the eye and the heart speaks in actions. Mistakes are of youth; judgment comes with the snows.

“I warned you of this Shoyahpee, but you laughed at my words. You left them by the trail as things to be forgotten and lost. But they can not die! That which is true lives forever, but that which is false has no foundation. The pale face has at last been found out. He has never meant right by my grandchild! He only seeks the money which she has not. I have sent Jim on the trail to save her and if the Shoyahpee has harmed her as I saw in a dream, he will kill him! like the forked tongue snake that he is. The power of the Soma-ash-hee will not fail!”

To this sorrowful lament, Julia made no reply, when the venerable woman retraced her steps to the lone teepee, where she was soon joined by the shy-girl. With a troubled mind Julia turned back into the house to spend many an anxious hour awaiting tidings of the sister she loved so well. With deep regret she recalled how, unknown to the devoted grandmother, she had planned many an outing for the lovers, and how she had favored Cogewea’s marriage to the fair stranger, rather than with her own mixed or Indian blood. This was not that she was ashamed of the Red race, but since civilization was the only hope for the Indian, it would, she reasoned be better to draw from the more favored and stronger, rather than to fall back to the unfortunate class so dependent on their conquerors for their very existence.