Two weeks had passed since the incident of Densmore’s riding; everything drifting along the usual channel. The hot July days were beginning to heat the great Clay Banks of the Pend d’Oreille, but under the dark pines lining its shore, were found spots cooled by the breeze from the stream. It was here that the injured man was spending the morning alone with a book. Cogewea, his nurse, had gone for a ride, an errand to a distant neighbor’s. He had exhausted an hour in a vain attempt at becoming interested in the pages that he turned to no purpose.

At last: he would lay aside the volume and study nature. He noted the many colored flowers which perfumed the air; the squirrels and chipmunks frisking among the boughs overhead, or scurrying along the ground. The birds caroling in the thicket, and the fishes swimming lazily in the waters where the shadows fell dark.

But he grew more restless. There was a disturbing element to his meditations. The wild life interested him no more than did the book. That “breed” girl came ever before him. It was vain that he tried to blot her from memory, to banish her from vision. She peeped from every flower; those flashing black eyes reflected from the pebbles glinting in the sunshine. Her tresses streamed on the eddying current, and her voice was in the notes of birdsong and the chipmunk’s chatter.

Alfred Densmore, the cold, calculating business man out from the East for adventure and money, was half in love with this wild, tawny girl of the range, the romantic “Chipmunk of the Okanogans.”

The idea struck him as absurd. He shook himself as if to throw off the shackles of irresolution. It was impossible! such weakness! He was only fascinated, he argued. Those liquid, mesmeric eyes had cast a spell over him⁠—a dangerous spell. With a gesture of impatience he flung his half-smoked cigarette into the water and spoke so the squirrels could hear him:

“What a fool! I am not really falling in love with that squaw! Ridiculous! What of my club associates? My sisters would never tolerate it, and it would break my mother’s heart. My father would never dare call me his son again. He would disinherit me! It is impossible that I so far forget myself, my birth and my social standing. Besides, there is another who⁠—”

He bit his lip, extracted a fresh cigarette from its case, lit it and drew at it furiously.

“Never! Never! I don’t dare! Pshaw! she only takes my fancy. What if she has been good to me?” he muttered. “I have known others of her ‘stripe’ just as kind. It is the way of all such women! They are alright as objects of amusement and pleasure, but there it must halt. Fairly educated, she can show refinement when the mood strikes her, but she makes easy to fall into the rough, uncouth ways of her associates⁠—the ill mannered rowdies of the cow-trail. None of such for you, Alfred Densmore! A be-pistoled woman who can swear a little on occasions may be picturesque, but she is no mate for a gentleman of the upper society. Had she strings to a good mine there would be an inducement, but a squaw without compensation⁠—a sacrifice without adequate requital⁠—bah!”

With this soliloquy, he dismissed the “dream,” and casting himself upon the ground, was soon buried in his book.

Cogewea returned from riding at an unusually early hour. She seemed interested in the welfare of her patient, for she went immediately to him under the pines. Densmore heard the jingle of spurs and glanced up to see the girl advancing, swinging a quirt in idle abandonment. A neat riding habit set off her splendid figure to advantage and the Easterner felt his heart bound a trifle faster as he surveyed this “exquisite living picture.” Perhaps he had been too harsh in his deductions. Could there be guile in a face of such open frankness? What could be expected of the best with such environments? Her forward ways were but those of innocence. A wild flower unscathed by sun-blight or frost⁠—a ruby unflawed⁠—a jewel worthy of any setting. But after all, she was a squaw, while he was of an altogether higher cast. Densmore brushed aside all feelings kindred to love, but he gazed at her with a fascination ill becoming one of his superior breeding. Cogewea, ever observant, grew slightly confused as she exclaimed:

“Well! have you nothing to say? Am I such a curiosity that⁠—”

“O! pardon me. I was just thinking.”

“Of what?”

“Of⁠—of how nifty you look in your new suit.”

“John bought it for me, a summer present. I guess he savied it was time that I possessed some glad rags! Maybe he tumbled that I had about earned them, cooking for the bronco busters and playing nurse at the same time.”

“You certainly have been a royal little nurse, and I am afraid that I can never thank you sufficiently for your kindness. But I hope to compensate you for it all some day.”

“Aw! come off! I am not asking pay! Guess I owe my services for the part I had in getting you busted up. How is your arm?”

“Seems to be getting along finely; but there is a dull pain in my head most of the time. I trust that it is nothing serious.”

“Doubtless a mere ‘aching void’ and no occasion for alarm,” came the solemn reply. “If the malady is deep seated, an abatement must not be expected in so short a time. An absorption remedy of any nature is usually slow of results and a persistent and potent application is ofttimes necessary.”

Cogewea had seated herself at Densmore’s side and was listlessly flecking the grass with her riding lash. Her patient hardly knew how to take this diagnosis of his head trouble and its remedial prescript. He gazed at her steadily, boldly, as an enigma to fathom; but the mask was impenetrable.

“Yes! I know,” he at length acquiesced, “but I feel so lonely at times. No one to speak to; everybody busy but me. Only the birds and squirrels for company. Can you blame me for growing impatient?”

“Birds and squirrels are good company. The wild creatures are primitive and are closer the creative Spirit than we imagine. I love them! But if they do not interest you, why don’t you talk to Stemteemä? Both of you have time to throw away. Go visit in her teepee.”

“I am afraid that she would chase me away with her cane as she does Bringo and Shep at times,” he rejoined with a short laugh.

“That only attests that you no more understand her than you do your little companions here of the grove; for they are similar in character. I’ll tell you what we will do some of these days. We’ll call on her together. Do not expect your afternoon tea of fashion’s boredom, but you will be regaled on jerked venison, dried roots and berries. I will have her tell some stories that may hold interest for you⁠—stories of the past⁠—of the time that was. She will speak in Okanogan and I will interpret for you. I love my Stemteemä for her very golden worth. She has been a parent to all of us children. When mother died, she was the only relative we had⁠—after daddy left us for the glitter of gold in the Yukon; and which⁠—”

Cogewea caught herself as though she had betrayed a secret; for seldom was the father’s name ever mentioned. The girl tried, in charity, to believe that he had long since followed her mother, but there was an ever haunting uncertainty⁠—a dreaming of that which is more fearful than death⁠—gnawing at her soul. With her, the present only is to concern us, is to be lived sacredly; and that somewhere out on the trail awaiting us, is the best friend that mortal ever known. Desolution! who liberates us from the perishable. Nor does he watch for our coming with sinister designs and foreshadowing the gloom of an invisible night; for the door which he swings back opens into the dawn of a morn redolent with renewed life; where avenues of progression wind along shimmering streams⁠—tree-lined and where birds are singing⁠—coming down from wondrous mountain heights. To this girl of “heretical” philosophies, Death was but the unfolding of a long bud-bound flower; the bursting forth of a rock-hampered fountain. Imbued with such lofty ideals, it is not surprising that she preferred thinking of her parents as dead⁠—in the general acceptance of the termfor that most dreadful of all denouncatories: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting”; loomed terrifically against the background of her conception of a life of profligacy.

The touch of sadness in Cogewea’s voice as she spoke of her parents, was lost on the Easterner. But the mention of “gold in the Yukon” had aroused to new life his latent passion for wealth. It was the one god of his ambition to go back home a rich man. For this, he had left the city and society. He must make good; he was not so particular how, but in some way. He had struck a rough, strange people and was gaining an exuberant experience with which to regale his associates upon his return to his old haunts. There must be wealth somewhere in this new country⁠—mines of it among the Indians⁠—requiring only brains and strategy to possess. He had discovered that this romantic girl was a nature’s religionist. He would court her ideals, but it would be for a purpose. He would amass this fortune⁠—transfer it to his own pocket⁠—and then⁠—his reverie was broken by Cogewea:

“I must go now! Sister will need help with the dinner. You better be there within an hour or you might miss your fodder.”

“Wait! just one moment,” remonstrated Densmore as she hurried away. “I want to ask a favor.”

“Spit ’er out!” she called, half turning back.

“Will you write a letter for me this afternoon?”

“Is that all? Sure thing! I thought you were going to strike me for a round thousand, from the way you hesitated. Come to your trough at sitkum sun. S’long!” with the wave of a hand.

“Trough! system sun! What do you mean?”

“Grub at noon. Sitkum sun is midday. Chinook. I learned it on the Columbia. It is hardly spoken here.”

After dinner and the kitchen work disposed of, Cogewea joined her patient under the pines. She sat near him on the river bank, writing material in her lap. With his left hand Densmore was awkwardly tossing pebbles into the water.

“What do you want me to write?” she asked cheerily.

“A letter to mother,” and by way of emphasis, he pitched a larger stone farther into the stream.

“All right! You rangle and I’ll use the brandin’ iron.”

Densmore settled in an easy position and dictated as follows:

“Polson, Flathead Indian Reservation; Montana.
July 21, 19⁠—

“Dearest Mother:

“A friend is writing this for me. I recently met with an accident to my arm which precludes the use of a pen. However, it is not serious and with the good nursing that I am receiving, I will soon be fully recovered. My nurse, while not a professional, is one of the very best; kind and affectionate. It is refreshing to meet with true friends in a strange place, and my nurse is certainly devoted to⁠—”

Densmore paused. Cogewea looked up, a deep blush suffusing her dark face. Her startled eye caught his steady gaze, and her head dropped lower over the tablet as he finished the sentence:

“⁠—her trust. She is writing this for me in the open and under the river pines.

“I think that I will remain here for an indeterminate time, since I have formed a strong attachment; and even love for my⁠—”

Cogewea was not trapped a second time. She did not lift her eyes as she inquired in frigid tones:

“Is that all?”

Densmore concluded without seeming to notice her question:

“⁠—environments. The people here are all in marked contrast to our home society. Of this I will tell you when I am able to write you myself. There are both thrills and romance out here.

“Address me as above. Tell sisters to write me.

“Shall I add a postscript and say that your nurse wrote this and that she is an Injun squaw?” asked Cogewea severely, looking her companion level in the face.

“N⁠—no! I⁠—I hardly think it necessary at this time,” he stammered confusedly. “Mother might not understand.”

“Very well. You can look the letter over while I address the envelope and if it suits you⁠—if it is true to your dictation⁠—it can be posed this evening. Rodeo will drive to town and return with supplies in the morning.”

Densmore took the proffered sheet and glancing through it, returned it with an ill suppressed smile, expressing his satisfaction. Cogewea folded and sealed the missive without comment and tossed it into his inverted hat at his side. There was an embarrassing silence for one short moment, when she rose and said simply:

“I must go and help sister with the children and the house work.”

“Why such hurry? I thought you had the afternoon off, and that perhaps we could visit your grandmother and hear those wonderful stories you promised me.”

“Not today!” she called back without stopping. “I think that Stemteemä is sleeping.”

“Touchy as powder!” he chuckled as he lay back on the grass in evident delight. “I thought so! She tumbled⁠—gave herself dead away. Now Mr. Alfred of the ‘circle,’ go your length in untrammeled pleasure with this brown beauty of the range. But no matrimonial tangle! Bah! What a match! A scion of the ancient house of Densmore, wedding a breed girl of the Okanogans. What a figure for the ball room and social functions of city life. Ye gods! My family must never know. But that possible gold of the Yukon! Who can tell what fish may be swimming my way. Surely, the catch would be worth the bait!”