CHAPTER II.
IN THE LODGE OF AKKOMI.
The earliest stars had picked their way through the blue canopy, when themen from the camp crossed over to the fishing village of the Indians; forit was only when the moon of May, or of June, lightened the sky that thered men moved their lodges to the north--their winter resort was theStates.
"Dan--umph! How?" grunted a tall brave lounging at the opening of thetepee. He arose, and took his pipe from his lips, glancing with assumedindifference at the handsome young stranger, though, in reality, Black Bowwas not above curiosity.
"How?" returned Overton, and reached out his hand. "I am glad to see thatthe lodges by the river hold friends instead of strangers," he continued."This, too, is a friend--one from the big ocean where the sun rises. Wecall him Max."
"Umph! How?" and Lyster glanced in comical dismay at his friend as hishand was grasped by one so dirty, so redolent of cooked fish, as the oneBlack Bow was gracious enough to offer him.
Thereupon they were asked to seat themselves on the blanket of thatdignitary--no small favor in the eyes of an Indian. Overton talked of thefish, and the easy markets there would soon be for them, when the boatsand the cars came pushing swiftly through the forests; of the many wolvesBlack Bow had killed in the winter past; of how well the hunting shirtof deer-skin had worn that Black Bow's squaw had sold him when he met themlast on the trail; of any and many things but the episode of the eveningof which Lyster was waiting to hear.
As the dusk fell, Lyster fully appreciated the picturesque qualities ofthe scene before him. The many dogs and their friendly attentionsdisturbed him somewhat, but he sat there feeling much as if in a theater;for those barbarians, in their groupings, reminded him of bits of stagesetting he had seen at some time or another.
One big fire was outside the lodges, and over it a big kettle hung, andthe steam drifted up and over the squaws and children gathered there. Someof them came over and looked at him, and several grunted at Overton. BlackBow would order them away once in a while with a lordly "Klehowyeh," muchas he did the dogs; and, like the dogs, they would promptly return, andgaze with half-veiled eyes at the elegance of the high boots covering theshapely limbs of Mr. Lyster.
The men were away on a hunt, Black Bow explained; only he and Akkomi, thehead chief, had not gone. Akkomi was growing very old and no longer ledthe hunts; therefore a young chief must ever be near to his call; so BlackBow was also absent from the hunt.
"We stay until two suns rise," and Overton pointed across to the camp ofthe whites. "To-morrow I would ask that Black Bow and the chief Akkomi eatat our table. This is the kinsman--_tillicums_--of the men who make thegreat work where the mines are and the boats that are big and the carsthat go faster than the horses run. He wants that the two great chiefs ofthe Kootenais eat of his food before he goes back again to the towns ofthe white people."
Lyster barely repressed a groan as he heard the proposal made, but Overtonwas blandly oblivious of the appealing expression of his friend; the thinghe was interested in was to bring Black Bow to a communicative mood, fornot a sign could he discover of a white woman in the camp, though he wasconvinced there was or had been one there.
The invitation to eat succeeded. Black Bow would tell the old chief oftheir visit; maybe he would talk with them now, but he was not sure. Thechief was tired, his thoughts had been troubled that day. The son of hisdaughter had been near death in the river there. He was only a child, andcould not swim yet; a young squaw of the white people had kept him fromdrowning, and the squaw of Akkomi had been making medicines for her eversince.
"Young squaw! Where comes a white squaw from to the Kootenai lakes?" askedOverton, incredulously. "Half white, half red, maybe."
"White," affirmed their host. "Where? Humph! Where come the sea-birds fromthat get lost when they fly too far from shore? Kootenai not know, butthey drop down sometimes by the rivers. So this one has come. She hastalked with Akkomi; but he tell nothing; only maybe we will all dance adance some day, and then she will be Kootenai, too."
"_Adopt_ her," muttered Overton, and glanced at Lyster; but thatgentleman's attention was given at the moment to a couple of squaws whowalked past and looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, so hemissed that portion of Black Bow's figurative information.
"I have need to see the chief Akkomi," said Overton, after a moment'sthought. "It would be well if I could see him before sleeping. Of these,"producing two colored handkerchiefs, "will you give one to him, that hemay know I am in earnest, the other will you not wear for Dan?"
The brave grunted a pleased assent, and carefully selecting thehandkerchief with the brightest border, thrust it within his huntingshirt. He then proceeded to the lodge of the old chief, bearing the otherostentatiously in his hand, as though he were carrying the fate of hisnation in the gaudy bit of silk and cotton weaving.
"What are you trading for?" asked Lyster, and looked like protesting, whenOverton answered:
"An audience with Akkomi."
"Great Caesar! is one of that sort not enough? I'll never feel that my handis clean again until I can give it a bath with some sort of disinfectantstuff. Now there's another one to greet! I'll not be able to eat fishagain for a year. Why didn't luck send the old vagabond hunting with therest? I can endure the women, for they don't sprawl around you and shakehands with you. Just tell me what I'm to donate for being allowed to baskin the light of Akkomi's countenance? Haven't a thing over here but somecigars."
Overton only laughed silently, and gave more attention to the lodge ofAkkomi than to his companion's disgust. When Black Bow emerged from thetent, he watched him sharply as he approached, to learn from the Indian'scountenance, if possible, the result of the message.
"If he sends a royal request that we partake of supper, I warn you, Ishall be violently and immediately taken ill--too ill to eat," whisperedLyster, meaningly.
Black Bow seated himself, filled his pipe, handed it to a squaw to light,and then sent several puffs of smoke skyward, ere he said:
"Akkomi is old, and the time for his rest has come. He says the door ofhis lodge is open--that Dan may go within and speak what there is to say.But the stranger--he must wait till the day comes again."
"Snubbed me, by George!" laughed Lyster. "Well, am I then to wait outsidethe portals, and be content with the crumbs you choose to carry out tome?"
"Oh, amuse yourself," returned Overton, carelessly, and was on his feet atonce. "I leave you to the enjoyment of Black Bow."
A moment later he reached the lodge of the old chief and, withoutceremony, walked in to the center of it.
A slight fire was there,--just enough to kill the dampness of the river'sedge, and over it the old squaw of Akkomi bent, raking the dry sticks,until the flames fluttered upward and outlined the form of the chief,coiled on a pile of skins and blankets against the wall.
He nodded a welcome, said "Klehowyeh," and motioned with his pipe that hisvisitor should be seated on another pile of clothing and bedding, near hisown person.
Then it was that Overton discovered a fourth person in the shadowsopposite him--the white woman he had been curious about.
And it was not a woman at all,--only a girl of perhaps sixteen yearsinstead--who shrank back into the gloom, and frowned on him with great,dark, unchildlike eyes, and from under brows wide and straight as those ofa sculptor's model for a young Greek god; for, if any beauty of featurewas hers, it was boyish in its character. As for beauty of expression, sheassuredly did not cultivate that. The curved red mouth was sullen and theeyes antagonistic.
One sharp glance showed Overton all this, and also that there was noIndian blood back of the rather pale cheek.
"So you got out of the water alive, did you?" he asked, in a matter offact way, as though the dip in the river was a usual thing to see.
She raised her eyes and lowered them again with a sort of insolence, asthough to show her resentment of the fact that he addressed her at all.
"I rather guess I'm alive,"
she answered, curtly, and the visitor turnedto the chief.
"I saw to-day your child's child in the waters of the Kootenai. I saw thewhite friend lifting him up out of the river, and fighting with death forhim. It would have been a good thing for a man to do, Akkomi. I crossedthe water to-night, to see if your boy is well once more, or if there isany way I can do service for the young white squaw who is your friend."
The old Indian smoked in silence for a full minute. He was a sharp-eyed,shrewd-faced old fellow. When he spoke, it was in the Chinook jargon, andwith a significant nod toward the girl, as though she was not to hear orunderstand his words.
"It is true, the son of my daughter is again alive. The breath was gonewhen the young squaw reached him, but she was in time. Dan know the youngsquaw, maybe?"
"No, Akkomi. Who?"
The old fellow shook his head, as if not inclined to give the informationrequired.
"She tell white men if she want white men to know," he observed. "Theheart of Akkomi is heavy for her--heavy. A lone trail is a hard one for asquaw in the Kootenai land--a white squaw who is young. She rests here,and may eat of our meat all her days if she will."
Overton glanced again at the girl, who was evidently, from the words ofthe chief, following some lone trail through the wilderness,--a trailstarting whence, and leading whither? All that he could read was that nohappiness kept her company.
"But the life of a red squaw in the white men's camps is a bad life,"resumed the old man, after a season of deliberation; "and the life of thewhite squaw in the red man's village is bad as well."
Overton nodded gravely, but said nothing. By the manner of Akkomi, heperceived that some important thought was stirring in the old man's mind,and that it would develop into speech all the sooner if not hurried.
"Of all the men of the white camps it is you Akkomi is gladdest to talk tothis day," continued the chief, after another season of silence; "for you,Dan, talk with a tongue that is straight, and you go many times where thegreat towns are built."
"The words of Akkomi are true words," assented Overton, "and my earslisten to hear what he will say."
"Where the white men live is where this young white squaw should live,"said Akkomi, and the listening squaw of Akkomi grunted assent. It was easyto read that she looked with little favor on the strange white girl withintheir lodge. To be sure, Akkomi was growing old; but the wife of Akkomihad memories of his lusty youth and of various wars she had been forced towage on ambitious squaws who fancied it would be well to dwell in thelodge of the head chief.
And remembering those days, though so long past, the old squaw was sorelyaverse to the adoption dance for the white girl who lay on their blankets,and thought it good, indeed, that she go to live in the villages of thewhite people.
Overton nodded gravely.
"You speak wisely, Akkomi," he said.
Glancing at the girl, Dan noted that she was leaning forward and gazing athim intently. Her face gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she perhapsknew what they were talking of, but she dropped back into the shadowsagain, and he dismissed the idea as improbable, for white girls wereseldom versed in the lore of Indian jargon.
He waited a bit for Akkomi to continue, but as that dignitary evidentlythought he had said enough, if Overton chose to interpret it correctly,the white man asked:
"Would it please Akkomi that I, Dan, should lead the young squaw wherewhite families are?"
"Yes. It is that I thought of when I heard your name. I am old. I cannottake her. She has come a long way on a trail for that which has not beenfound, and her heart is so heavy she does not care where the next trailleads her. So it seems to Akkomi. But she saved the son of my daughter,and I would wish good to her. So, if she is willing, I would have her goto your people."
"If she is willing!" Overton doubted it, and thought of the scowl withwhich she had answered him before. After a little hesitation, he said: "Itshall be as you wish. I am very busy now, but to serve one who is yourfriend I will take time for a few days. Do you know the girl?"
"I know her, and her father before her. It was long ago, but my eyes aregood. I remember. She is good--girl not afraid."
"Father! Where is her father?"
"In the grave blankets--so she tells me."
"And her name--what is she called?"
But Akkomi was not to be stripped of all his knowledge by questions. Hepuffed at the pipe in silence and then, as Overton was as persistentlyquiet as himself, he finally said:
"The white girl will tell to you the things she wants you to know, if shegoes with your people. If she stays here, the lodge of Akkomi has ablanket for her."
The girl was now face downward on the couch of skins, and when Overtonwished to speak to her he crossed over and gently touched her shoulder. Hewas almost afraid she was weeping, because of the position; but when sheraised her head he saw no signs of tears.
"Why do you come to me?" she demanded. "I ain't troubling the white folksany. Huh! I didn't even stop at their camp across the river."
The grunt of disdain she launched at him made him smile. It was so muchmore like that of an Indian than a white person, yet she was white,despite all the red manners she chose to adopt.
"No, I reckon you didn't stop at the white camp, else I'd have heard ofit. But as you're alone in this country, don't you think you'd be betteroff where other white women live?"
He spoke in the kindliest tone, and she only bit her lip and shrugged herangular shoulders.
"I will see that you are left with good people," he continued; "so don'tbe afraid about that. I'm Dan Overton. Akkomi will tell you I'm square. Iknow where there's a good sort of white woman who would be glad to haveyou around, I guess."
"Is it your wife?" she demanded, with the same sullen, suspicious wrinklebetween her brows.
His face paled ever so little and he took a step backward, as he looked ather through narrowing eyes.
"No, miss, it is not my wife," he said, curtly, and then walked back andsat down beside the old chief. "In fact, she isn't any relation to me, butshe's the nearest white woman I know to leave you with. If you want to gofarther, I reckon I can help you. Anyway, you come along across the lineto Sinna Ferry, and I feel sure you'll find friends there."
She looked at him unbelievingly. "She's used to being deceived," decidedOverton, as she watched him; but he stood her gaze without flinching andsmiled back at her.
"Do you live there?" she asked again, in that abrupt, uncivil way, andturned her eyes to Akkomi, as though to read his countenance as well asthat of the white man,--a difficult thing, however, for the head of theold man was again shrouded in his blanket, from which only the tip of hisnose and his pipe protruded.
In a far corner the squaw of Akkomi was crouched, her bead-like eyesglittering with a watchful interest, as they turned from one to the otherof the speakers, and missed no tone or gesture of the two so strangely metwithin her tepee. Overton noticed her once, and thought what a subjectfor a picture Lyster would think the whole thing--at long range. He wouldwant to view it from the door of the tepee, and not from the interior.
But the questioning eyes of the girl were turned to him, and rememberingthem, he said:
"Live there? Well, as much--a little more than I do anywhere else of late.I am to go there in two days; and if you are ready to go, I will take youand be glad to do it."
"You don't know anything about me," she protested.
He smiled, for her tone told him she was yielding.
"Oh, no--not much," he confessed, "but you can tell me, you know."
"I know I can, but I won't," she said, doggedly. "So I guess you'll justmove on down to the ferry without me. He knows, and he says I can livehere if I want to. I'm tired of the white people. A girl alone is as wellwith the Indians. I think so, anyway, and I guess I'll try camping withthem. They don't ask a word--only what I tell myself. They don't even carewhether I have a name; they would give me one if I hadn't."
"A suitable name--and a nice Ind
ian one--for you would be, 'The Water Rat'or 'The Girl Who Swims.' Maybe," he added, "they will hunt you up one morelike poetry in books (the only place one finds poetry in Indians),'Laughing Eyes,' or 'The One Who Smiles.' Oh, yes, they'll find you a namefast enough. So will I, if you have none. But you have, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have, and it's 'Tana," said the girl, piqued into telling by thehumorous twinkle in the man's eyes.
"'Tana? Why, that itself is an Indian name, is it not? And you are notIndian."
"It's 'Tana, for short. Montana is my name."
"It is? Well, you've got a big name, little girl, and as it is proof thatyou belong to the States, don't you think you'd better let me take youback there?"
"I ain't going down among white folks who will turn up their noses at me,just because you found me among these redskins," she answered, scowling athim and speaking very deliberately. "I know how proud decent women are,and I ain't going among any other sort and that's settled."
"Why, you poor little one, what sort of folks have you been among?" heasked, compassionately. Her stubborn antagonism filled him with more ofpity than tears could have done; it showed so much suspicion, that spokeof horrible associations, and she was so young!
"See here! No one need know I found you among the Indians. I can make upsome story--say you're the daughter of an old partner of mine. It'll be alie, of course, and I don't approve of lies. But if it makes you feelbetter, it goes just the same! Partner dies, you know, and I fall heir toyou. See? Then, of course, I pack you back to civilization, where youcan--well, go to school or something. How's that?"
She did not answer, only looked at him strangely, from under thosestraight brows. He felt an angry impatience with her that she did not takethe proposal differently, when it was so plainly for her good he wasmaking schemes.
"As to your father being dead--that part of it would be true enough, Isuppose," he continued; "for Akkomi told me he was dead."
"Yes--yes, he is dead," she said coldly, and her tones were so even no onewould imagine it was her father she spoke of.
"Your mother, too?"
"My mother, too," she assented. "But I told you I wasn't going to talk anymore about myself, and I ain't. If I can't go to your Sunday-schoolwithout a pedigree, I'll stop where I am--that's all."
She spoke with the independence of a boy, and it was, perhaps, herindependence that induced the man to be persistent.
"All right, 'Tana," he said cheerfully. "You come along on your own terms,so long as you get out of these quarters. I'll tell the dead partnerstory--only the partner must have a name, you know. Montana is a goodname, but it is only a half one, after all. You can give me another, Ireckon."
She hesitated a little and stared at the glowing embers of the lodge fire.He wondered if she was deciding to tell him a true one, or if she wastrying to think of a fictitious one.
"Well?" he said at last.
Then she looked up, and the sullen, troubled, unchildlike eyes made himtroubled for her sake.
"Rivers is a good name--Rivers?" she asked, and he nodded his head,grimly.
"That will do," he agreed. "But you give it just because you were baptizedin the river this evening, don't you?"
"I guess I give it because I haven't any other I intend to be called by,"she answered.
"And you will cut loose from this outfit?" he asked. "You will come withme, little girl, across there into God's country, where you must belong."
"You won't let them look down on me?"
"If any one looks down on you, it will be because of something you willdo in the future, 'Tana," he said, looking at her very steadily."Understand that, for I will settle it that no one knows how I came acrossyou. And you will go?"
"I--will go."
"Come, now! that's a good decision--the best you could have made, littlegirl; and I'll take care of you as though you were a cargo of gold. Shakehands on the agreement, won't you?"
She held out her hand, and the old squaw in the corner grunted at thesymbol of friendship. Akkomi watched them with his glittering eyes, butmade no sign.
It surely was a strange beginning to a strange friendship.
"You poor little thing!" said Overton, compassionately, as she half shrankfrom the clasp of his fingers. The tender tone broke through whatever wallof indifference she had built about her, for she flung herself facedownward on the couch, and sobbed passionately, refusing to speak again,though Overton tried in vain to calm her.
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