The sun was bursting over the mountains, portending a cloudless day. Cogewea stood at the gate waiting for Silent Bob to drive up with the bays, Prince and Jerry. They were going to Polson, to meet the noon steamer, which was expected to bring her aged grandmother and her sister Mary. She was holding the reins of Wanawish. The hack would be crowded on the return trip, so she had decided to ride the spirited steed for the first time since the encounter with the rattler. The horse had had a long rest and no one but Jim seemed to know why. He saw her as he was passing and there was a note of concern in his voice as he hailed:

“Hell‑o! Sis. Goin’ to ride Wanawish?”

“Why shouldn’t I ride my own horse?”

“Oh! I⁠—I thought⁠—Let me ride him first.”

“You mind your own business!” she snapped.

“Aw! come now, little squaw! You know that there hoss⁠—”

“Is too gentle for the ‘best rider of the Flathead’ to trifle with,” she laughed derisively.

Further remonstrance on Jim’s part was prevented by Carter, who approached from the barn and said:

“I wish, Cogewea, that while you are in town you would see if you can find a man for me. We are short handed and must have another rider. Rodeo is leaving within a few days.”

“So Rodeo is hittin’ the breeze!” with a twinkling eye. “Well, that is too bad! The ranch is to lose its only blond cowpuncher. How will it do to bring you a light haired substitute?”

“Now Cogewea! don’t start some of your absurd stunts!” he rejoined impatiently. “I need an extra rider and he should be an expert. Do you know one when you see him?”

“Sure! They are always⁠—”

“Then get a man who can ride without ‘choking’ the horn. You know the great number of horses we have to break in compliance with my sales contract, and I want a rider of experience. Look around and secure a man and show the kind of boss you will make. Maybe I will create you foreman, when Jim becomes my partner.”

Cogewea caught the wink that was intended for Jim only, and the mantling blood suffused her olive cheek to a darker hue. Her eyes flashed as she retorted:

“And, understanding the basic conditions of such partnership, I agree to accept the foreman’s place when proffered.”

Jim’s heart sank, but his bronzed face betrayed no emotion as he turned and silently walked away.

Silent Bob dashed from the barnyard with the prancing bays champing at the bit. It taxed the skill and strength of the sturdy driver to hold them in check. Cogewea climbed to the seat at his side, bringing up Wanawish by the hackamore. They were soon spinning miles behind them, Bringo skulking forbidden in the wake. They struck the sloping wagon grade up the gulch, leading to the little town of some five hundred inhabitants, consisting of both whites and half-bloods. The outskirts of this reservation “city” was dotted with Kootenai Indian7 camps, where the cowboys and the “breeds” played monte with the tribesmen on the quiet; where also the irrepressible bootlegger was busy selling the natives an inferior grade of firewater at from five to ten dollars the quart. The penalty for this is a fine and possible imprisonment, when caught, but the lure of excessive profit is strong and there are always unscrupulous whites who engage in this debauchery of the child-minded Indian. Despite the efforts of the usually alert officers of the U.S. Special Indian Service, whose business it is to ferret out these miserable law-defying creatures, the traffic flourishes. Ofttimes the victim of appetite will give his last pony for a single drink. When drunk, his family suffers. The wife with her little papooses deserts the teepee for the brush, or any place where she may find protection. Well does she know his beastly nature when under the crazing effects of rum. He is more brute than human. His inherent fighting spirit seems to possess his every emotion. He will toy with any deadly weapon he may find and will use it without hesitation. Only occasionally are there exceptions to this rule. A few become maudlin and cry over fancied or actual grievances. This is the heritage of the white men’s civilization, forced⁠—like the opium traffic of China⁠—upon a weaker people by the bayonets of commercial conquest. It overshadows all of the good resultant from the “higher” life.

The sun mounted higher in a hot, brazen sky, beating down upon the travelers with ever increasing intensity. The hack came in view of the Flathead Lake, shimmering in the distance like molten glass.

Cogewea, though happy in the expectation of meeting her near kindred, was pensive. She was thinking of the old grandmother, who, like many of her contemporaries, had until this trip, declined riding a railway train. Where there was so much clang and clatter, there must be a corresponding jarring and shaking, which she could not endure. Thus the primitive and the modern are ever at variance; neither comprehending or understanding the other. The Stemteemä knew many interesting tales of the past; legends finer than the myths of the Old World; but few of them known to the reading public and none of them understood. Whether portraying the simple deductive ideals of a primitive mind delving into the shadowy past, or constructive of the hopes of a future yet unborn, the philosophy is a sacred one. Ever suspicious of the whites and guardedly zealous in the secrecy of their ancient lore, seldom do the older tribesmen disclose ancestral erudition, and when they do, their mysteries are not comprehended. The young people, as a rule, are interested in their tribal legends only to the extent of cramming some ardent writer with palpable absurdities. They have progressed beyond the pristine days. The airy teepee has given place to the stuffy houses of their conquerors; their habiliments changed and the native wild foods supplanted by those of commerce.

Over these things Cogewea was meditating. The Stemteemä had adhered to some of the old-time customs⁠—teepee and groundcouch⁠—moccasins and ankle-wraps. But she was lingering pathetically in the sunset of a closing era. The rising generation was educating, while the half-bloods, brought up more like the white children, enjoyed some business advantages over their full-blooded relations. But then, they were just a go-between people, shut within their own diminutive world. There seemed no place for them among either race. The Indians were unduly suspicious of them, while the whites arrogantly ignored them. Their lives darkened by the mixing of the two peoples closed all avenues to social attainments.

The Silent one, his hands full with the bays, was non-communicative and Cogewea began musing half-aloud:

“Yes, we are between two fires, the Red and the White. Our Caucasian brothers criticize us as a shiftless class, while the Indians disown us as abandoning our own race. We are maligned and traduced as no one but we of the despised ‘breeds’ can know. If permitted, I would prefer living the white man’s way to that of the reservation Indian, but he hampers me. I appreciate my meagre education, but I will never disown my mother’s blood. Why should I do so? Though my skin is of the tawny hue, I am not ashamed. The Great Spirit willed it so, and His ways are immutable and not to be censured. The trail has been laid for me, the rough, stony path of life. May I do my duty well in the sight of the Deity of my ancestors. There can be no⁠—”

Further musings were cut short by her companion, who, with a supreme effort expostulated:

“Aw! come outen it! I’m a thinkin’ yo’ all’d make a good preacher woman. Them there kind what wants ter be made perlice wimin an’ jedges an’ th’ main push. Wantin’ to wear th’ breeches an’ boss th’ hull shebang. I hater⁠—”

“What do you mean?” Cogewea laughed, her mood instantly changing. “A missionary, a police matron, or what?”

“Why! them there wimmin what go out an’ make speeches an’ everythin’ else. Yo’ know what’s allers in th’ noospapers, ’bout their doin’s. Ev’ry paper a feller parooses says somethin’ ’bout people a throwin’ rotten aigs at ’em. I fergit that there name they call ’em, but yo’ oughter know. I hater talk so much ’bout⁠—”

“Oh! I know what you are referring to. Suffragettes.”

“Y‑a‑s! that’s ’em. People a bowlin’ aigs at ’em.”

“And that is why you want me to turn suffragette, so you can pelt me with stale eggs?”

“N⁠—no! I didn’t mean that there way. I was jes’ a kiddin’; ’cause yo’r a dam’ good win’ jammer.”

“Well! now! I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment, joke or a slur.”

“Aw! I was only jokin’. Can’t yo’ take a tumble? I hater have ter ’splain so much; I hater get so tired a talkin’.”

“Yes, I tumble. But you must be fatigued after such a prolonged jamboree. I never heard you make so continued a speech.”

They both laughed.

Silent Bob had been with the Horseshoe Bend family so long that he had become as one of them. He at least liked Cogewea, and if he really loved her, it is doubtful if he ever could have brought his words to such a declaration, although the boys contended that he had done so, as previously described. But Bob understood her perhaps, better than did any of his companions. He knew that the girl meant right, despite her odd, forward ways. And Cogewea admired the droll Southerner, for his crude, manly qualities; but she seemed to prefer Jim, notwithstanding she was ofttimes irritated because of his attentions. Yet, after scolding him, she always forgave him. She never could get the Westerner out of humor with her; nor could she long hold resentment.

Arriving in Polson, Bob drove directly to the boat landing. The steamer came gliding in, the passengers thronging the deck. Cogewea discerned her aged grandparent and her sister Mary, standing apart from the others; pathetic in social isolation. The old squaw was wearing her semi-civilized garb. A brilliant colored handkerchief was bound about her head, while the slightly stooped shoulders were wrapped in a plaid shawl. Wampum and ear ornaments were in evidence, and beaded moccasins encased her small, shapely foot.

Mary McDonald, known as the “shy-girl,” was as tall as her sister, Cogewea, lithe and slender. Her skin was of the fairer type, inherited from her white father. Jet was her hair as the raven’s wing, while her eyes were of the deepest blue; with long, dark sweeping lashes, which emphasized the native beauty of her strongly featured face. Her Indian coyness and modesty of manner, had not been broken by her convent schooling. Her dress was orange and becoming to her trim figure. She loved the ambitious Cogewea, with a deep, sisterly love, although she had often been embarrassed by her independence of action and speech.

Scarce was the gangplank in place, when Cogewea rushed forward to assist Mary with the baggage, leaving the none too strong grandmother unencumbered. The little troop, as it filed ashore, attracted no attention from the assembled loungers, but there was one passenger who observed its individuals with mingled curiosity and disappointment. He was a medium sized, rather handsome man of about thirty four, light complexioned, thin lipped and with a cold, calculating grey eye. His dress was that of a business man rather than the sport. Fresh from a great eastern city, he had expected to see the painted and blanketed aborigine of history and romance; but instead, he had only encountered this miniature group of half-bloods and one ancient squaw. Observing Bob with the team and attracted by his generally “range” appearance, he accosted him, expressing his vexation and disgust for the writers who had beguiled him to the “wild and woolly.”

“Yo’ can strike ’em back on the reservation whar they wear feathers an’ scalps,” answered Bob with an inward chuckle, “but yo’ don’t fin’ th’ gen‑u‑ine article a cavortin’ in a bus’lin concentration like this here miterpolish.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the stranger with sudden interest. “I would like to see some of them. I grew tired of the tameness of city life, and came out here hoping to secure employment on some large stock farm. I want to rough it a while among Indians and cowboys.”

His allusion to a “farm” branded him as a truly verdant tenderfoot; and Silent Bob’s eyes twinkled as he rejoined:

“If yo’ don’t have no ’ticular difference ’tween farmin’ and ranchin’, yo’ might strike a job with my boss.”

“What is the difference? I supposed that farming and ranching were just the same?”

“Y‑a‑a‑s! a farm is whar they keep hawgs, an’ milk a pen full of cows an’ feed calfs outen a bucket an’ get milk blowed all over yo’ clo’es. A ranch is whar they keep hosses an’ cattle an’ run ’em on th’ range, an’ roun’ ’em up in corrals an’ bran’ ’em with a hot iron. On a farm they hire tame white men an’ sunny schoolteachers. On a ranch they have wil’ Injuns an’ wil’er range riders; all a wearin’ big hats an’ silver spurs; an’ a totin’ of a six-shooter or two, with maybe notches in th’ han’els. It’s sho’ th’ life all right, with mos’ly b’ar steak an’ coyote dessert.”

“Where is this ranch?” the “verdant” questioned delightedly. “I want to see your boss.”

“Outen some ways on th’ reservation. But yo’ can see an’ confab th’ boss right here.”

“Where?” and the Easterner glanced eagerly about. “I do not see him.”

“Naw!⁠ ⁠… him? Who said yo’ could?”

“Why! you did!”

“Yo’ have another guess a comin’, stranger. I said yo’ could see th’ boss an’ yo’ can if yo’ ain’t blin’. Aw! Hell! I hater be aller time a speelin’; I hater get so tired⁠—Say! Cogewea!” he called as the group of three approached, “this here’s a feller what wants to go out on a ranch; an’ bein’ as yo’ is already good as fo’man, yo’ better take him.”

Cogewea’s cheeks burned at the reference to “foreman.” She had not supposed that Bob had overheard the morning conversation at the gate. Smothering her confusion, she turned and addressed the stranger, noting his general appearance.

“Are you wanting work?”

“W-h! yes!” he stammered in surprise, lifting his hat politely. “I had thought of farm employment, but since the gentleman has explained the difference existing between farm and ranch, I think that I would be pleased with the latter.”

Cogewea glanced at Bob, who winked slyly. The old spirit of mischief took possession of her, as she again turned to the applicant:

“Can you ride?”

“Er-yes!” he replied with embarrassment, having in mind his childhood days when he rode the plow team to and from the field in central New York.

“All right! forty per, grub and bunk. You can ‘bump’ out on the ‘chuck.’ We are going to start now.”

With this, Cogewea handed her aged kinswoman into the rear seat with Mary, and turned to mount Wanawish standing a few feet away.

“Throw yo’ grip under th’ seat an’ climb up an’ roost with me,” drawled Bob, with foot on the brakebar.

The stranger did as directed and they were off. The drive home was uneventful. Wanawish seemingly had forgotten his escapade of a few weeks previous, and cantered contentedly in the wake of the hack. The Easterner, after a fruitless endeavor to draw Bob into conversation, subsided; and save for the occasional low monotone colloquy carried on by the Indian women in their native tongue, the journey was made in silence.