Cogewea, the Half Blood by Mourning Dove

Author:Mourning Dove [Hum-Ishu-Ma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8032-8406-7
Publisher: Nebraska
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XVII.

FRENGHY—TOY OF THE COWBOYS

The sunburnt demigods who ranged

And laughed and lived so free,

Have topped the last divide, or changed

To men like you and me.

—Badger Clark

EVERYBODY was busy at the Horseshoe Bend. The annual beef roundup of nearly a month’s duration was just three days distant. While the number of stock was less than in former years, the range was wide and it still required many skilled riders with relay of horses to accomplish the work with celerity. That was why John Carter and his foreman were anxiously engaging help to fill out their quota of men. The boys were overhauling chaps, bridles and saddles, oiling rawhide ropes and grooming horses. Each vied in going into the field with the best conditioned equipment; nor must theirs be second to any of the other outfits with which they were to come in contact. All silver mountings were burnished to glittering splendor. “War bags” were carefully made up, consisting of one change of underwear, socks, a top shirt and plenty of “tobaccy.” Bedding, tents, and many necessaries used on the range were being methodically collected. A cook for the chuck-wagon and a rangler for the saddle-string were yet to be secured.

As Cogewea came from the tepee where she had taken food for the Stemteemä, a stranger approached on horseback. The dogs ran at him, barking furiously and his spirited cayuse whirled, snorting; the rider saving himself by clutching the saddle-horn. The girl noticed that he bounced in the saddle like a rubber ball, also that he wore a green flannel shirt and that when he dismounted, his buckskin breeches bagged at the knee. They were of a style seen only in the early days of the West, and appeared out of place even on the Flathead. He wore high-heeled boots, a broad sombrero, and a scarlet kerchief was about his neck. Cogewea had nearly laughed at the comical figure. She divined at a glance that he was a tenderfoot trying to play the role of a real westerner, even to the formidable looking six-gun at his belt. He doffed his hat with a sweeping bow and a polite: “Bonjour!” to which she returned a cheery: “Hell-o!” He then spoke:

“I wassasoom blee-ad!”

“Some what?”

“Blee-ad! I wassa soom le-tal blee-ad.”

“Aw! shake yourself. Speak English!”

“Mon-dieu! I wassa soom blee-ad! soom le-tal bis-a-cat!”

“Oh! you want a cat, a little kitten?” Cogewaa laughed amusedly. “Well, we have none to spare. We are short of cats just now; stock all run down. Can book your order.”

“Sac-ré!” he almost screamed, throwing up his hands in despair. “I wassa blee-ad! soom bis-a-cat. You let-a me star-ruv; go hun-gar-reé?”

Mary, hearing the “stampede” from the veranda, called to her sister that it was bread, or biscuit that the stranger was asking for. He was liberally supplied and as he passed the gate, Jim accosted him and after a few moments conversation the stranger proceeded on his way. But within an hour he returned with a companion and one packhorse. Both were employed to help on the roundup and were soon known as “Frenchy” and “Jake”.

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