Mrs. Wilson sat in a big comfortable chair in front of the wide
hearth on which a log that the boys had dragged down from the
mountains, was cheerily burning. The frail woman smiled happily as
she watched the flames. How wonderful it was to know that after all
she was going to live, perhaps many more years to minister to her
little family. In her heart there had been a secret fear for months
that she was soon to leave them.
She leaned back among the pillows that her nurse had arranged so
comfortably before she had departed for a short horseback ride with
Harry.
From where she sat Mrs. Wilson could look out of the window and
watch the trail down which she would soon see the young people
returning.
Then again she fell to dreaming. Perhaps she would live long enough
to see both of her boys married, and it might be that in some future
day she would be seated in front of this same fireplace watching
another log burn and holding a wee grandchild. Tears sprang to her
eyes as she pictured her beloved husband growing old with her and
little ones playing about them.
This happy reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching
ponies. It might be the men from the North Camp for the nurse and
Harry had not been gone long enough to be returning. She sat
watching the picture framed by her window. As the hurrying
hoof-beats neared, she guessed, and truly, that there were more than
two ponies, for, down the part of the trail that she could see,
single file, came six small, wiry horses. Instantly she knew that
their riders were from the Indian village.
The little black-haired boy in the lead wore a red feather in the
band about his head, and, at his side rode a tall, slender girl with
a scarlet blanket about her shoulders. There were four others, but
they were dressed in khaki. It was only by their black hair and
dusty complexions that she knew that they, too, were Indians. Then
it was that Mrs. Wilson recalled something which of late she had
forgotten. It was that an Indian maiden from this same Papago
village had been East to a fashionable boarding school with Barbara
Wente, the fairy-like little girl who was so liked by Benjy.
Perhaps the Winona of whom she had heard, was the tall, graceful
Indian maiden riding in the lead with the lad of the red feather,
Mrs. Wilson thought, and then, idly, she wondered where they were
going. Perhaps to some hunting camp farther north in the mountains.
She was not long left in doubt regarding the destination of the
riders, for, almost as soon as they had passed from her vision,
there came a rapping on the front door.
Harry had made her promise that she would not leave her chair and so
she called, “come in,” hoping that one among the strange visitors
might be able to understand the language that she spoke.
The door opened at once and a tall young man with a clear, direct
gaze stood before her. To the little woman’s surprise, he spoke
excellent English.
“Madame Wilson, I am Strong Heart, chief of the tribe of Papagoes.
It is my wish to converse with my sister. One month ago Red Feather
returned with the message that Winona was to remain with you and be
your nurse.”
There was a rush of conflicting emotions in the heart of the
listener, and foremost among them was the sudden realization that
her son, Harry, loved, really loved an Indian maiden. If her voice
shook a little as she replied, Strong Heart did not notice it for
her words were friendly as they always were to any fellow-being.
“My very kind nurse then is your sister?” she inquired. “I have been
too ill to wonder who she was or from where she came.” Then, fearing
that in some way this had lacked in graciousness, she added simply
and sincerely: “Strong Heart, we all dearly love your sister. She
has truly been an angel in our home.”
And, even as she spoke, Mrs. Wilson knew that it was the truth.
Harry loved Winona and so too did his mother. Then she directed the
Indian lad to the water-hole toward which Winona and Harry had
ridden, and, when the visitors were gone, she sat for a long time
watching the fire and thinking: “My boy shall never know that I
regret his choice, and yet, do I really regret it, for a nobler girl
he could not have chosen.”
In the meantime Winona and Harry had been riding at a canter. Then,
letting their horses walk more slowly, they conversed quietly
together. They spoke of his mother and Harry expressed to the dusky
girl at his side his great appreciation of her services.
By now and then asking a question the lad persuaded Winona to talk
about her year at school. She ended by telling of Fleet Foot and she
described in glowing terms his deed of heroism. Harry Wilson,
listening, believed that Winona cared for the Indian lad about whom
she was talking, and, a few moments later he was convinced that his
surmise had been correct.
Suddenly they had been halted by a whooping call from little Red
Feather, and, turning in their saddles, they drew rein and waited
for the Papagoes to ride up. Instantly Harry knew that the tall,
arrow-straight youth, who whirled his pony about that he might speak
to Winona, was the one of whom he had just heard.
They rode apart, somewhat, and for a time seemed unconscious of the
presence of the others as they talked earnestly in low undertones.
Harry tried to be interested in a conversation with Strong Heart
concerning the condition of water-holes at that time of the year,
but now and then he found his gaze wandering in the direction of his
mother’s nurse while his thought assured him that Winona naturally
would care more for one of her own people than for one of another
race.
When the young Papagoes had ridden away toward the mountain trail
which they would have to cross to reach their walled-in village, the
other two, after visiting the water-hole, returned to the Wilson
ranch. Winona was in the lead and each was thoughtfully silent. As
they neared the house Harry hastily hastened his pony and rode at
the girl’s side. She looked up with a smile so radiant that the lad
was more than ever assured that her visit with Fleet Foot had
brought her great happiness.
“Dear girl,” he thought, “from now on I will try to think of her as
I would of a sister. After all, mother will need one of her boys
just to care for her.” Aloud he said, “Winona, Ben and I have often
wished we had a sister. You have been to all of us in our trouble
what I believe she would have been. I hope you will come often to
visit in our home.”
The girl turned and looked at him frankly. “Thank you, Harry,” she
said, simply. It was then that Hal was convinced that the Indian
girl had never thought of him other than a dear friend and
companion.
When they reached the ranch house, Harry took both of the horses to
the corral, while Winona quietly entered the living room, believing,
and truly, that she would find Mrs. Wilson dozing in her comfortable
chair.
For a moment Winona stood gazing at the sweet face to which the
color of health was slowly returning. Then, quietly, she tip-toed
close and, bending, she lightly kissed the forehead beneath the soft
gray hair.
She was not usually demonstrative, but, although even her dearest
friend had never guessed it, there had always been in the heart of
this Indian girl a yearning for that wonderful something that she
had never had, the love of a mother.
When a few moments later the little woman opened her eyes it was to
see her quiet nurse again in the neat blue and white uniform
preparing the evening meal.
Harry came in and offered his services, which were accepted.
Winona’s manner, usually so reserved, seemed almost joyous.
“Friend of mine,” she said, “I have a beautiful secret and I think I
will tell it to you.”
* * * * *
It was after the evening meal. Mrs. Wilson had been made comfortable
for the night and the young people thought her asleep as they sat
near the hearth in the living room and spoke quietly together.
“You promised to tell me a beautiful secret,” the lad said, a dread
heavy at his heart. “May I hear it now?”
“Yes,” the girl replied, turning her clear gaze toward him. “It is
about Fleet Foot.”
“I knew it,” was the unexpected response, and Winona looked up
inquiringly. “Why, how could you know it?” Then, as the lad did not
answer, she continued: “This afternoon I told you about the kind,
elderly physician in the East who was so pleased with Fleet Foot’s
spirit of a sacrifice, and how, when the lad was well enough to be
moved from the hospital, Doctor Quinton took him to his country home
in New Jersey, where he remained through the three lovely months of
spring?”
Harry nodded. He could not understand why Winona was beginning her
story in this way if the secret was what he believed it to be, that
the Indian maiden and Fleet Foot cared for each other.
“Are you listening, Harry?” the girl asked, for the lad was gazing
at the burning log with a faraway expression in his grey-blue eyes.
He turned and smiled at her. “Indeed I am, Winona,” he said, “I am
greatly interested in what you have to tell me.”
“So am I, greatly interested,” the girl continued. “It is all like a
beautiful poem, and yet, true. The summer home of this kind old
physician is a picturesque log cabin in the midst of a pine wood
just above a clear blue lake which Fleet Foot described as a
wonderful mirror reflecting every fleecy white cloud that sailed
above it by day and every star at night. When they first arrived at
the cabin they heard singing somewhere among the pines, and then,
skipping toward them came a gold-and-white fairy of a girl who was
Sylvia, the granddaughter of Doctor Quinton. She was delighted
because her ‘dear old grand-dad,’ as she called him, had brought a
comrade, and, as the days passed, Fleet Foot learned to love this
lassie who was so unlike—well, so unlike the Papago maidens.
“He called her ‘Sunshine-on-a-Dancing-Brook.’ Fleet Foot never spoke
of his love, for he believed that the physician, much as he liked
him, would not wish him to marry his granddaughter, the flower of
his life, but when Fleet Foot came West, that little flower drooped,
and then it was that Doctor Quinton learned that Sylvia cared for
Fleet Foot, really cared, and now comes the wonderful part of it
all. Yesterday my friend had a letter from the elderly physician
asking him to return to them if he really loved his little
‘Sunshine-on-a-Dancing-Brook.’ Fleet Foot came to say goodbye, for
tomorrow he departs.”
There was a glad light in the eyes of the listener.
“Winona,” Harry said, more impulsively than he had ever before
spoken, “I thought you cared for Fleet Foot and I was sad, for I do
so want to try to win your love.”
Winona did not reply at once, and, as there was only the light of
the fire about them, the lad could not tell by her expression what
she might be thinking.
When the girl spoke, she said: “Harry, your mother wants you to
marry one of your own people.”
It was then that they heard a soft voice calling to them, “Come to
me, both of you.”
They entered the dimly lighted room and stood by the bedside. The
little woman smiled up at them and in her eyes there was a new
tenderness. Holding out a frail hand, she said: “I have always
wanted a little girl, Winona. Won’t you be my beloved daughter?”
The young people knelt and she placed their hands together. “Now,”
she said, “my dearest wish has been fulfilled. My older son is to
have just the wife that I would choose for him.”