“I found Jibiwanisi good in my sight,” she said, with a simple dignity, “and he looked on me.”

“It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Ae,” replied the girl.

“He does not wish to take you in his wigwam.”

“Eagle-eye is angry now.  Anger melts under the sun.”

“I do not think his will.”

“Then I will make his fire and his buckskin and cook his food.”

“We go on a long journey.”

“I will follow.”

“No,” replied the woodsman, abruptly, “we will send you back.”

The girl remained silent.

“Well?” insisted Bolton.

“I shall not go.”

A little puzzled at this insistence, delivered in so calm a manner, Sam hesitated as to what to say.  Suddenly the girl stepped forward to face him.

“Little Father,” she said, solemnly, “I cannot go.  Those are not my people.  I do not know my people.  My heart is not with them.  My heart is here.  Little Father,” she went on, dropping her voice, “it is here, here, here!” she clasped her breast with both hands.  “I do not know how it is.  There is a pain in my breast, and my heart is sad with the words of Eagle-eye.  And yet here the birds sing and the sun is bright.  Away from here it is dark.  That is all I know.  I do not understand it, Little Father.  My heart is here.  I cannot go away.  If you drive me out, I shall follow.  Kill me, if you wish, Little Father; I do not care for that.  I shall not hinder you on the Long Trail.  I shall do many things.  When I cannot travel fast enough, then leave me.  My heart is here; I cannot go away.”  She stopped abruptly, her eyes glowing, her breath short with the quivering of passion.  Then all at once her passivity fell on her.  She stood, her head downcast, patient, enduring, bending to circumstance meekly as an Indian woman should.

Sam Bolton made no reply to this appeal.  He drew his sheath-knife, cut in two the doubled three-point blanket, gave one of the halves to the girl, and indicated to her a place under the shelter.  In the firelight his face hardened as he cast his mind again over the future.  He had not solved the problem, only postponed it.  In the great struggle women would have no place.

At two o’clock, waking in the manner of woodsmen and sailors the world over, he arose to replenish the fire.  He found it already bright with new fuel, and the Indian girl awake.  She lay on her side, the blanket about her shoulders, her great wistful eyes wide open.  A flame shot into the air.  It threw a momentary illumination into the angles of the shelter, discovering Dick, asleep in heavy exhaustion, his right forearm across his eyes.  The girl stole a glance at Sam Bolton.  Apparently he was busy with the fire.  She reached out to touch the young man’s blanket.

CHAPTER ELEVEN