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But his weapon is for his quarry, and not for himself. He destroys it when there is danger that he shall get hurt by it. You are a poisoned weapon, and you have sought to hurt me. So." Wanaha suddenly stepped forward. Her great eyes blazed up into her brother's. "The great chief wrongs my man. All he has done he was forced to do. His has been the heart to help you.
"To go as I am now, a white girl in white girl's clothing, would be madness. I know your people. I should never escape their all-seeing eyes. I must go like one of your people." "You would be a squaw?" A wonderful smile was in the great black eyes as Wanaha put the question. "Yes." "Yes, I see. Wana sees." A rising excitement seemed to stir the squaw.
Hargreaves. Then Mrs. Rankin and Rosebud moved off to the two waiting buckboards, and Wanaha disappeared down a by-path through the trees. Seth and Charlie Rankin followed their womenfolk. Seth was the only silent member of the party, but this was hardly noticeable, for he rarely had much to say for himself. On the way home Rosebud at last found reason to grumble at his silence.
Sit, like those wise councilors of yours. It is good to pow-wow." The headstrong youth sat down again, and the pow-wow went forward. It was daylight again when Nevil returned to Wanaha. For Indian pow-wows are slow moving, ponderous things, and Little Black Fox was no better than the rest of his race when deliberations of grave import were on.
"Poor Seth." Wanaha had caught something of the other's infectious mood. "I don't think he needs any pity, either," said Rosebud, impulsively. "Seth's sometimes too much of a good thing. He said I ought to learn to hoe. And I don't think hoeing's very nice for one thing; besides, he always gets angry if I cut out any of the plants. He can just do it himself." "Seth's a good man.
The woman's placid and now inscrutable face was in marked contrast to her husband's. His displayed the swift vengeful thoughts passing behind it. His overshot jaws were clenched as closely as was physically possible, while his pallid eyes were more alight than Wanaha had ever seen them. As he sat there, biting his thumb so viciously, she wondered what had angered him.
Inside the log hut on the White River, Wanaha was standing before a small iron cook-stove preparing her husband's food. It was the strangest sight imaginable to see her cooking in European fashion. Yet she did it in no uncertain manner. She learned it all because she loved her white husband, just as she learned to speak English, and to dress after the manner of white women. She went further.
Wanaha shall die by my hand, and then she has no right to the life of the white man!" The first streak of dawn lit the eastern sky. The horses were grazing, tethered to their picket ropes within view of the log hut down by the river. The wagon stood in its place at the side of the building. There was no firelight to be seen within the building, no lamplight.
"Yes, yes, my Wana," she replied, drawing the tall woman to her, so that, in the dim starlight, they sat together on the edge of the bed. Her action was one of tender affection. Wanaha submitted, well pleased that her white friend had allowed nothing of the doings of her people to come between them. "Yes, I come to you for help.
It's that that makes him think he's got the right to order me about," she added, as a hasty afterthought. Further talk was interrupted at that moment by a knock at the back door. Rosebud passed out into the wash-house to answer the summons, and Ma Sampson heard her greet the Indian woman, Wanaha. The old farmwife muttered to herself as she turned back to her work.
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