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Snoqualmie's fierce black eyes searched her face, as if looking through and through her, and she flushed faintly under their penetrating gaze. "She is yours," said the war-chief. "Be kind to her, for though she is your wife she is the daughter of Multnomah." So much did the Indian say for love of his child, wondering at her strange, sad look, and feeling vaguely that she was unhappy.
And his sympathies went out to the lonely girl, the golden thread of whose life was to be interwoven with the bloodstained warp and woof of Snoqualmie's. But he tried hard not to think of her; he strove resolutely that day to absorb himself in his work, and the effort was not unsuccessful.
Again and again she felt as if she must fall; but the bitter scorn and loathing that Snoqualmie's touch had kindled gave her strength, and at last she completed the ascent. Above the falls and close to them, she sat down upon a rock; a slight, drooping figure, whose dejected pose told of a broken heart. Before her, almost at her feet, the pent-up river was widened to a vast flood.
Missionary work was utterly impossible that day. Wallulah and the problem of his love filled his thoughts. His mind, aroused and burning, searched and analyzed the question upon every side. Should he tell Multnomah of Snoqualmie's cruelty, representing his unfitness to be the husband of the gentle Wallulah? To the stern war-chief that very cruelty would be an argument in Snoqualmie's favor.
She tried to withdraw her fingers from Snoqualmie's clasp the moment her father was done speaking. He held them tightly, however, and bending over her, spoke in a low tone. "My band starts for home at mid-day. Be ready to go when I send for you." She looked up with startled, piteous eyes. "To-day?" she asked in a choked voice.
False though it was, in so far as Snoqualmie claimed to have himself slain Cecil, it was thoroughly in keeping with Indian character. White captives were often told, "I killed your brother," or, "This is your husband's scalp," when perhaps the person spoken of was alive and well. "Dead!" He threw his tomahawk at her feet. "His blood is on it. You are Snoqualmie's squaw; wash it off."
The squaws tried in vain to restore order; it seemed as if there was going to be a general stampede. The men dashed up from the rear, Snoqualmie and Cecil among them. Cecil's old nurse happened to be in Snoqualmie's way. The horse she rode was slow and obstinate; and when she attempted to turn aside to let Snoqualmie pass he would not obey the rein, and the chief's way was blocked.
She must learn to bring wood and water for Snoqualmie's lodge, too. She must learn to wait on him as an Indian's wife ought. The old wrinkled squaws, who are good for nothing but to be beasts of burden, shall teach her."
It was a defiance, a contemptuous rejection of peace, a declaration of war more disdainful than any words could have made it. Then, before they could recover from their astonishment, the Bannock turned and leaped through the crowd at the door, for an instant's stay was death. Even as he leaped, Snoqualmie's tomahawk whizzed after him, and a dozen warriors were on their feet, weapon in hand.
Multnomah took her hand; the fingers of the other were clasped around her beloved flute, pressing it closely, as if seeking help from its mute companionship. The chief gave her hand into Snoqualmie's; a shudder passed through her as she felt his touch, and she trembled from head to foot; then she controlled herself by a strong effort.
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