"He says, 'Yes, how much?'"
"Oh, the mercenary thing!"
"Not at all," replied Curtis. "His time is worth something. You artists
think the redmen ought to sit for nothing."
Two Horns ran through a swift and very graceful series of signs, which
Curtis translated rapidly.
"He says: 'I have heard of you. You painted Elk's daughter. I hear you
sell these pictures and catch a great pile of money. I think it is right
you pay us something when we stand before you for long hours, while you
make pictures to sell to rich men in Washington. Now, I drive a team; I
earn some days two dollars driving team. If I stop driving team, and
come and sit for you, then I lose my two dollars.'"
As he finished, Two Horns smiled at Elsie with a sly twinkle in his eyes
which disconcerted her. "You sabbe?" he ended, speaking directly to her.
"I sabbe," she said, in reply.
"Good!" He held out his hand and she took it, and the bargain was
sealed. He then returned to his work about the camp.
"Isn't it glorious!" the girl cried, as she looked about her. "It's
enough to do an artist all over new." The grass and the willows sparkled
with dew-drops. The sky, cloudless save for one long, low,
orange-and-purple cape of glory just above the sunrise, canopied a
limitless spread of plain to the north and east, while the high butte to
the back was like the wall of a temple.
"Oh, let's take a run up that hill," Elsie said, with sudden change of
tone. "Come!" and, giving Curtis no time to protest, she scuttled away,
swift as a partridge. He followed her, calling:
"Wait a moment, please!"
When he overtook her at the foot of the first incline she was
breathless, but her eyes were joyous as a child's and her cheeks were
glowing.
"Let me help you," he said; "and if you slip, don't put your hand on the
ground; that is the way men get snake-bitten."
"Snakes!" She stopped short. "I forgot--are there rattlesnakes here?"
"There is always danger on the sunny side of these buttes at this time
of the year, especially where the rocks crop out."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't give me time."
"Do you really think there is danger?"
"Not if you walk slowly and follow me; I'll draw their poison. After
they bite me they'll have no virus left for you."
She began to smile roguishly. "You are tired--you want an excuse to
rest."
"If I thought you meant that, I'd run up to the summit and back again to
show you that I'm younger than my years."
She clapped her hands. "Do it! It will be like the knight in the
story--the glove-and-lion story."
"No. On reflection, I will not run; it would compromise my dignity. We
will climb soberly, side by side, like Darby and Joan on the hill of
life."
With a demure countenance she took his hand, and they scrambled briskly
up the slope. When they reached the brow of the hill she was fairly done
up, while he, breathing easily, showed little fatigue, although she had
felt his powerful arm sustaining her many times on the steeper slopes.
She could not speak, and he smilingly said, "I hope I haven't hurried
you?"
"You--are--strong," she admitted, brokenly. "I'm not tired, but I can't
get breath."
At length they reached the summit and looked about. "What is the meaning
of those little towers of stone?" she asked, after a moment's rest.
"Oh, they have different meanings. Sometimes they locate the springs of
water, sometimes they indicate the course of a trail. This one was put
here by a young fellow to mark the spot from whence he saw a famous herd
of buffalo--what time he made a wonderful killing."
"I suppose all this land has been the hunting-ground of these people for
ages. Do you suppose they had names for hills like this, and were fond
of them like white people?"
"Certainly. They had a geography of their own as complete in its way as
ours, and they are wonderfully sure of direction even now. They seldom
make a mistake in the correlative positions of streams or mountains,
even when confused by a white man's map."
"It _is_ wonderful, isn't it--that they should have lived here all those
years without knowing or caring for the white man's world?"
"They don't care for it now--but I see Two Horns signalling that
breakfast is ready, so we had better go."
"Let's run down!"
"Wait!" He caught her. "It will lame you frightfully, I warn you."
"Oh no, it won't."
"Very well, experience is a fine school. If you must run down, we'll go
down the shadowed side. Now I'll let you get half-way down and beat you
in, after all. One, two, three--go!"
With her skirt caught up in her hand, she started down the hill in
reckless flight. She heard his shout and the thud of his prodigious
leaps, and just as she reached the level he overtook her and
relentlessly left her far behind. Discouraged and panting, she fell
into a walk and waited for him to return, as she knew he would.
"Oh, these skirts!" she said, resentfully. "What chance has a woman with
yards of cloth binding her? I nearly tumbled headlong."
He did not make her suffer for her defeat, and they returned to camp gay
as a couple of children. Lawson smiled benevolently, like an aged uncle,
while Elsie told him of their climb. Said he: "When you're as old as I
am you will wait for wonders to come your way; you will not seek them."
The breakfast was made merry by Jennie, who waged gentle warfare on
Parker, whose preconceived ideas of the people resident on an Indian
reservation had been shaken.
"Why, you're very decent," he admitted at last.
"They are all like us--nit," replied Jennie. "We're marked 'special.'"
"Couldn't be any more like you, sis," said Curtis.
"_You_ shouldn't say that."
"Well, it needed saying, and no one else seemed ready to do it. If
Calvin had been here!"
"Who is Calvin?" asked Mrs. Parker.
"I know!" cried Elsie. "He's one of the handsomest young cowboys you
ever saw. If you want to do a cow-puncher, Parker, he's your model."
"I certainly must see him. If I don't do a cowboy or a bucking bronco
I'm a failure."
As they were ready to start, Elsie again took her place beside Curtis,
but Lawson insisted on sitting behind with Jennie. "It's hard luck,
Parker, to have to sit with your wife," he said, compassionately.
"Oh, well! I'm used to disappointments," Parker replied, in resigned
calm.
Elsie felt the need of justifying herself. "Are you complaining? Am I
the assistant driver, or am I not? If I am, here is where I belong."
"When I was coaching in Scotland once--" began Lawson.
"Oh, never mind Scotland!" interrupted Elsie. "See that chain of peaks?
Aren't they gorgeous! Do we camp there?"
"Yes," replied Curtis. "Just where that fan-shaped belt of timber
begins, I hope to set our tent. The agency is just between those dark
ridges."
"It is strange," Elsie said, after a pause. "Last year I was _wondering_
at everything; now I am looking for familiar things."
"That is the second stage," he answered. "The third will be sympathy."
"What will the fourth be?"
"Affection."
"And the fifth?"
"Devotion."