ronanear 
 
 DEMJLLE 
 BURTON
 
 The Reviewers speak in the highest praise of 
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK R BURTON 
 
 "Vital, significant, entertaining. Unique in its class. There 
 ae scenes in the book unexcelled in any picture of human life." 
 
 New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 "As a novel it is entitled to be read for entertainment, and as a 
 study of Indian character it is a scientific offering." 
 
 Boston Evening Transcript. 
 
 "The admirers of Fenimore Cooper will be delighted to Me 
 their fallen gods erect again." Manchester (Eng.) Guardian. 
 
 "A great story, great enough to take a place with the distin- 
 guished fiction of the year." New Haven Register. 
 
 "Charming and readable." St. Paul Pioneer Prett. 
 
 "A strong story." Buffalo Exprest. 
 
 " Thoroughly entertaining." Grand Rapids Prttt. 
 
 " Charmingly written." Pittsburg Post. 
 
 " Interesting and authoritative." Syracuse Herald. 
 
 "Close-knit, vital, it gives a unique light on Indian life and 
 ideals. All the Indians of the story stand out with a rude humanity, 
 in strong contrast to the pallid glamor of the Pocahontas-Ramona 
 type, or the lurid chromatics of the Buffalo Bill brand." 
 
 The Delineator. 
 
 I2trw, Cloth bound, Illustrated, $1.50. 
 
 G.W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
 
 0? CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 "I LAID DOWN THE CAMERA AND UKABBED THE RIFLE." 
 
 Frontispiece. Page 41.
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 A Novel by 
 FREDERICK R. BURTON 
 
 Founded on WILLIAM C. de MILLB'S Play 
 
 Illustrations by 
 CLARENCE ROWE 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 Copyright, 1908. by 
 O. W. DILLJNGHAM COMPANY 
 
 Issued Sept. 18th, 1906 
 
 Second printing Sept. 24th, 
 
 Third printing Oct. 2nd, 
 
 Fourth printing Nov. 24th. 
 
 Strongheort
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PARTI: SAVAGERY 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. In the Land of the Ojibways o 
 
 II. "We Are All Men" 20 
 
 III. The Camera Fiend 32 
 
 IV. Impressions of Soangetaha 44 
 
 V. The Uselessness of Education 54 
 
 VI. The Square-Dealers ; 67 
 
 VII. Conspirators for Justice 87 
 
 VIII. Chief Kiwetin, the Debater 104 
 
 IX. Strongheart's Ultimatum 115 
 
 X. Dick to Dorothy 131 
 
 PART II: CIVILIZATION 
 
 XI. Dorothy 144 
 
 XII. On the Quadrangle 163 
 
 XIII. The Nocturne in G Major 167 
 
 XIV. The Song of Elopement 191 
 
 XV. Thome's Ground for Jealousy 212 
 
 XVI. An Experiment that Failed 222 
 
 XVII. Livingston's Losing Battle 241 
 
 XVIII. Strongheart's Dream 254 
 
 XIX. The Plotter 273 
 
 XX. The Gambler's Chance 287 
 
 XXI. The Penalty of Friendship 296 
 
 XXII. Race Prejudice 312 
 
 XXIII. Everywhere the Same Wall 335 
 
 SEQUEL 
 
 XXIV. The Chief 34^ 
 
 XXV. Tribal Concessions 361 
 
 XXVI. The White Squaw 37^ 
 
 XXVII. The Horns of a Moose 383 
 
 2129316
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PACK 
 
 "I laid down the camera and grabbed the rifle." Frontispiece 41 
 
 Strongheart caught the white man by the throat 8l 
 
 His face as grare as if he were performing a sacred ceremony. 04 
 
 Was it to hear this that he had traveled so many hundred miles ? 373
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Part I ; 
 
 SAVAGERY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 X 
 IN THE LAND OF THE OJIBWAYS 
 
 Just north of Lakes Huron and Superior there is 
 a country wherein even now the enthusiastic ex- 
 plorer may find hills and valleys never before trod by 
 the foot of the white man, lakes not yet seen by the 
 white man's eye, rivers whereon no craft has floated 
 save the Ojibway's bark canoe. 
 
 There, deer, and moose, and elk abound to lure 
 men of wealth to their slaughter ; there stand yet vast 
 tracts of white pine, sturdy guardians of earth's deep- 
 est serenity, to lure the timberman, advance guard of 
 civilization, to their destruction ; there lie doubtless 
 mineral secrets which some day will be exposed to 
 the clamor of stamp mills and the frontier saloon ; 
 there the venturesome holiday-maker from the cities 
 of the United States may still stumble upon the 
 rude dwellings of unregistered Indians who some- 
 
 9
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 times travel as far as the railroad and then retire to 
 their silent haunts, affrighted at the noisy terrors of 
 civilization; a land, it seems, where Nature has made 
 her last stand in the course of her enforced retreat 
 to the snow-bound regions of the North. 
 
 It was in this land that a young man traveled 
 southward by canoe one midsummer afternoon. Lit- 
 tle he had to exercise the paddle, save to guide his 
 frail craft, for the current bore him swiftly while it 
 chuckled to listening banks of its burden. The trees 
 on either side touched leafy hands and whispered of 
 it. Here and there a gray-bearded cliff frowned 
 gravely at the traveler and, it may be, sent some mes- 
 sage thrilling beneath the soil in warning to brethren 
 battling with the stream where it bends to avoid a 
 hill and fights its impetuous way among and over im- 
 peding rocks. They knew, these ancient cliffs and 
 towering trees, what punishment the river had in 
 store for him who presumed to make it do his bid- 
 ding. Time had been when dare-devil natives of the 
 wilds had shot the rapids to win a wager, or prove 
 courage, and so gain a feather for the bonnet; there 
 had been now and again a hero of the wilderness who 
 had dodged the rocks and leaped the falls in safety, 
 but so few were they that the natives of this day 
 knew them only by legendary names, and trusted not 
 themselves to the hazardous attempt; what, then, 
 should this traveler, whose face showed the pallor of 
 a strange people beneath its temporary bronze, hope 
 to accomplish save his own destruction? The river, 
 excited with the joy of it, began to laugh. 
 
 10
 
 STRONG PI EART 
 
 The young man raised his head at the sound. He 
 peered forward, not so much in anxiety as in curi- 
 osity. Some suggestion of prudence led him to glance 
 at the banks for a possible landing-place. He saw 
 none where he could stop with safety to his craft, for 
 already the current leaped with him, and it might 
 have been impossible even to turn the canoe to shore. 
 So he set his lips in a smile of determination, and poised 
 himself to apply the paddle swiftly and powerfully to 
 evade such obstacles as might appear before him. 
 
 It was where the Pangisibi ("Little River," as the 
 natives call it) tears madly through half a circle in 
 order to force its way past the barrier of hills. The 
 descent grows steeper and steeper, until, rounding the 
 last arc of the curve, there is a short plunge almost 
 like a cascade that brings the stream triumphantly 
 to a pool where the water boils with ever-decreasing 
 violence, and, spreading wide over the new-found 
 level, chatters at last of its victory to half submerged 
 stones that form a natural and easy ford for the rare 
 travelers who have need of it. 
 
 Two men, each bearing a rifle, emerged from the 
 forest on the east side of the ford, and proceeded to 
 cross it. One was under the medium height, and his 
 clothes sat loosely on him soft hat, black shirt, 
 shabby trousers and moccasins ; the other tall, com- 
 manding in mien, carried the hall marks of civiliza- 
 tion even into the depths of the wilderness in that 
 he wore shoes of dressed leather, and garbed his body 
 and limbs in the picturesque habiliments affected by 
 the sportsman from the city. The tall man walked 
 
 11
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 first, and his steps were as sure on the scattered 
 stones as those of his moccasined companion. They 
 were proceeding silently along the open space beside 
 the pool on the western side, when the short man 
 suddenly caught the other by the arm and pointed to 
 the white-flecked turmoil below the falls. They saw 
 an overturned canoe floating toward the shallows, 
 and a human head sinking near it. 
 
 There was a startled exclamation from the tall 
 man, a brief word of command, and each dropped 
 his rifle. He of the moccasins ran swiftly back to 
 the ford, waded in, and, tenderly as one might care 
 for a suffering child, kept the canoe from rubbing 
 against the stones, lifted it and bore it, dripping, 
 upside down, over his head to the open space, and 
 laid it gently upon the grass. He glanced toward 
 his companion, but, perceiving no need of assistance, 
 gave his attention wholly to the canoe, pressing the 
 frail bark here and there with his knuckles, and shak- 
 ing his head gravely as he found abundant signs of 
 damage. 
 
 The tall man was in the pool. He had leaped 
 straight in, and had swam half way across while the 
 other was running to the ford. In the middle he sank 
 for a moment, and when he reappeared he had the 
 unfortunate canoeist under the shoulders. Using his 
 left arm to keep the young man's head above water, 
 he propelled himself with his right, and so gained 
 the bank. He laid the man on the grass, and turned 
 him on his face, working over him with more energy 
 than knowledge of the most approved modern meth- 
 
 12
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ods of first aid; but there was virtue in the ancient, 
 crude ways, and in this instance the signs of anima- 
 tion on the part of the subject were speedily mani- 
 fested. When the tall man observed them, he called 
 to his companion, and hastened to a spot a few yards 
 further up stream where a quantity of charred wood 
 gave evidence of former camps. It was, indeed, a 
 favorite halting-place for travelers in the wilderness, 
 and had been so, undoubtedly, since ages before au- 
 thentic history began. There was dry wood now 
 within reach, a few sticks only, but enough for a be- 
 ginning, and kindling was supplied by bark stripped 
 quickly from a birch tree. The tall man produced 
 matches from a metal box that the water had not 
 penetrated, and set the flames sputtering over the 
 bark ; then he ran here and there, gathering other bits 
 of wood and placing them on the fire. 
 
 Meantime, he of the moccasins left the canoe with 
 apparent reluctance, for what more interesting and 
 important can there be to the O jib way than a bark 
 canoe which has been serviceable and may yet be 
 restored to usefulness? and stooped over the half 
 drowned traveler. There was nothing to do for 
 him except to let life resume its full activity unim- 
 peded, whereas skillful hands might at least prepare 
 the pitch for mending the canoe. The traveler lay 
 with eyes closed, but he was breathing, and presently 
 he made a convulsive movement as if he would 
 get up. 
 
 "Dorothy!" he gasped, as he looked vaguely about 
 him, and clutched at the grass. Then his features 
 
 13
 
 5 T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 contorted with an expression of acute pain, and he 
 sank back again. 
 
 The watcher called to his companion, and the tall 
 man came on the run. A few words passed, and he 
 of the moccasins obediently took up the other's task 
 of attending to the fire. Again the eyes of the canoeist 
 opened, but this time he did not try to rise. He 
 looked wearily at the man who bent over him. 
 
 "Feeling all right now?" asked the rescuer. 
 
 "I can breathe," was the reply. 
 
 "Yes, that's better than a stomach full of water, 
 isn't it? Will you try to get up? It will be better 
 for you, you know, if you can exercise a little. I'll 
 help." 
 
 So saying, he put his hands under the canoeist's 
 shoulders and lifted, but immediately laid the man 
 down again, for a half suppressed groan, and the 
 twitching of face muscles showed that there had been 
 painful injury somewhere. 
 
 "Better let me lie still awhile," said the canoeist, 
 very white, and speaking with difficulty. 
 
 "Where does it hurt?" 
 
 "Feet and ankles." 
 
 "All right above?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Then you'll be all right soon. Feet will get well, 
 but I'll take off your shoes. There may be a swell- 
 ing by and by, you know, which would be worse 
 with shoes on, and then we should have to cut the 
 shoes off, which would be bad in this country where 
 there isn't a store at every corner." 
 
 i :
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 The rescuer applied his fingers swiftly to the young 
 man's shoe-laces, and presently bared his feet. "Yes," 
 he said, thoughtfully, "there's some damage there. 
 Well, if you can't walk, and so get exercise, the next 
 best thing is to get heat. I'll carry you to the fire." 
 
 "Great Scott!" exclaimed the , young man, feebly, 
 "got a fire ? Did you have it all ready for me ?" 
 
 The other made no reply, but picked him up and 
 carried him to the fire and placed him on the ground 
 with his back to a log and his feet toward the blaze. 
 The little journey caused the canoeist some pain, but 
 he bore it without groan or comment now that his 
 consciousness had fully returned. "You're wet your- 
 self," said he, catching his breath a bit. "Did you 
 jump in there after me?" and he turned his gaze 
 toward the pool. 
 
 "I had to," said the other. 
 
 "Because I wouldn't float to the shore? I'm sure 
 Fm obliged to you. Confound it! I don't remember 
 that I ever had my life saved before. See here, you 
 need the fire as much as I do, don't you?" 
 
 "No. I can keep moving. It doesn't hurt a woods- 
 man to get wet." 
 
 He had removed his coat and was wringing the 
 water from it. "I'm going to strip," he continued 
 tranquilly, "and hang my clothes by the fire, for 
 they're not comfortable. If you can stand it you'd 
 better do the same. I mean, if you can get your 
 clothes off. I'll help, you know. The danger is that 
 you'll catch cold." 
 
 "Sure," said the canoeist, but there was doubt in his 
 15
 
 STRONGH'EART 
 
 tone in spite of the confident word, for he was begin- 
 ning to think again, and he wondered how he could 
 avoid a cold if he lay naked while his clothes were 
 drying; and beyond that, what was to happen to 
 him if the excruciating pain in his ankles did not 
 cease? He was puzzled rather than anxious, but, 
 when he looked all around as if to seek an answer to 
 his queries, he saw a man standing at the eastern 
 end of the ford, and immediately his mind was ab- 
 sorbed in other matters than his narrow escape from 
 drowning and the discomforts of his situation. "By 
 Jove!" he exclaimed, "there's Dossegay!" 
 
 The tall man looked toward the ford, and, as he 
 did so, the man there began to cross. 
 
 "He's a drunken redskin I employed," added the 
 canoeist, by way of explanation. "I was chasing him 
 when I upset that is, I was going to the place where 
 I left him this morning, but I didn't expect to find 
 him there, or ever see him again." 
 
 There was no response from the tall man, who 
 stood with his back to the canoeist, and neither spoke 
 again until Dossegay halted a few yards from the 
 fire. Then Dossegay said something in his native 
 tongue, and the tall man answered him in the same 
 language. Dossegay spoke at some length, and at the 
 end took from his coat a large pocketbook and handed 
 it to the tall man who, in turn, gave it to the canoeist. 
 
 "I see you understand the redskin's lingo," said 
 the canoeist, with a touch of admiration in his tone. 
 "My guide does, too." 
 
 "Yes, I understand them," the tall man responded 
 16
 
 5 T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 The canoeist eagerly opened the pocketbook and 
 took from it a photograph and a letter. He glanced 
 at them, made sure quickly that they were what they 
 should be, replaced them in their compartment, and 
 laid the book on the ground beside him. There was 
 the light of deep satisfaction in his eyes, and a faint 
 color on his cheek. 
 
 "Is your money all right ?" asked the tall man. 
 
 "Oh!" and the canoeist's tone seemed to convey an 
 apology for having overlooked such a detail. He 
 picked up the pocketbook, opened it again and with- 
 drew a considerable packet of banknotes. "Not a 
 dollar gone," he said, after counting. 
 
 "I thought so," was the tall man's comment. "The 
 Ojibway may get drunk, but he doesn't steal. Dosse- 
 gay," he continued, "says he expects to get the sack 
 for what he did, and he wasn't following you up in 
 any hope of keeping his job; but when he came to 
 himself after you had gone, he found your pocket- 
 book on the ground where your tent was, and he 
 thought you would want it. So he hit the trail after 
 you. He would have gone on v. - ^at seeing you 
 here, for the trail is on the other side of the river, 
 but he saw and smelt the smoke of our fire, and he 
 turned aside to see what was up. That's his story." 
 
 "See here, Dossegay," cried the canoeist, "you don't 
 get the sack, see ? You stay, stick, hang on, you don't 
 lose your job, savvy? I say, mister, tell him that in 
 his own lingo so he'll sure catch on, will you ?" 
 
 The tall man complied gravely, Dossegay listening 
 without the slightest change of facial expression, and 
 
 17
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 at the end of a short conversation he looked toward 
 the canoeist and said "Migwetch" thank you quite 
 as if he were offering condolences for a death in the 
 family. Then, said the tall man, "He will stay, and 
 he will change clothes with you. He's near enough 
 to your size to make it possible to get into his clothes, 
 and yours will dry very soon when we rig them up 
 by the fire. After that he'd better go on and tell 
 your friends what has happened to you and where 
 they can find you. We won't stay here, for it would 
 be risky for you. Mukwa and I will carry you to 
 our camp. It's not more than three miles. Your 
 guide will know how to find it, and if he didn't Dosse- 
 gay would tell him. It's what your people would call 
 a summer resort. My people go there every season." 
 
 "Your people!" echoed the canoeist, in a tone of 
 the profoundest amazement, and he looked sharply at 
 his rescuer. "You don't mean to say that you're an 
 Indian !" 
 
 "I am an Ojibway," was the muffled reply, the tall 
 man's voice being: momentarily indistinct because he 
 was pulling his anirt off over his head. He stood 
 wringing the water from the garment, and the canoeist 
 saw that the dark hue of his face, which he had sup- 
 posed was merely the deep tan of constant outdoor 
 life, continued to the shoulders and broad chest which 
 shone in the afternoon sun as if the man were a 
 statue of burnished copper. "My name is Soan- 
 getaha," he added. "My father is chief of the tribe." 
 
 The canoeist looked at the Indian in silent fascina- 
 tion. It was clear enough now what race was his; 
 
 18
 
 STRO NGHEART 
 
 now that the features were scrutinized analytically, 
 the facial characteristics of the red man were plainly 
 evident; his hair, which was cut rather modishly, was 
 jet black and coarse ; that might have revealed his 
 race to the canoeist's casual glance but that Soan- 
 getaha, who had thrown off his hat when he leaped 
 into the pool, had put it on again immediately after 
 coming out; now he was again bareheaded. 
 
 "What a build for an athlete!" was the canoeist's 
 silent comment, as he admiringly viewed the Indian's 
 muscular development. "Not an ounce of surplus 
 flesh anywhere." 
 
 "Soangetaha," he said aloud. "That's an easier 
 name than some that your people have. I suppose it 
 has a meaning, hasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes; your people would call it Strongheart." 
 
 19
 
 CHAPTER II 
 "WE ARE ALL MEN" 
 
 "I like that better," said the canoeist, ingeniously. 
 "My name is Livingston. I hope I didn't say any- 
 thing offensive about your people." 
 
 "No," Strongheart replied ; "if you had, your quick 
 forgiveness of Dossegay would have made it right. 
 We're used to being misunderstood and unappreci- 
 ated. I think you'll find that Dossegay will keep 
 straight the rest of the time he is with you, and I 
 would willingly bet that he got started on his drunk 
 while he was in some white-man settlement." 
 
 "You're quite right, Strongheart. We picked him 
 up in the Soo. He got a flask there and carried it 
 with him unknown to us. I s'pose he reckoned that 
 it would be a long time between drinks, and that he'd 
 better make the most of his opportunity. Anyhow, 
 yesterday he was more of a hindrance than a help, 
 and this morning he was dead to the world. We 
 could do nothing with him, couldn't even wake him, 
 and there was no use in lugging him along. So we 
 left him asleep on the ground, with enough grub near 
 to last him for a day or so. You see, I'm making a 
 trip with another fellow, my best friend. Frank Nel- 
 son is his name. It's just for the fun of being in 
 
 20
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 the woods, with a little fishing and hunting thrown in 
 when we feel like it. You must think me all sorts 
 of a fool for getting upset as I did." 
 . "I should say your guide was a fool, or strangely 
 ignorant, for letting you try to shoot the Pangisibi 
 rapids." 
 
 "Oh! the guide's all right. Perhaps you know 
 him, Steve Winterton." 
 
 "Yes, I know Winterton. What was he thinking 
 of? He knows the Pangisibi as well as the Ojib- 
 ways " 
 
 "He didn't know what I was up to, Strongheart. 
 I'll tell you all about it, for I want the blame to stick 
 where it belongs, on me. We set out for a lake Steve 
 told us of which he said had never been visited by 
 white men. He's never been there himself, but he 
 knew of it, he said, from the Indians. I s'pose he 
 wasn't stringing us, was he?" 
 
 "Did he name the lake?" Strongheart asked. 
 
 "Yes; he said the Indian word for it meant Long 
 Lake." 
 
 "Ginsagaigan." 
 
 "That sounds like it. Have you been there?" 
 
 "Yes. I think Winterton was right. I never heard 
 of white men going to it. I should say it would be 
 four days from here." 
 
 "Well, that tallies with what Steve said. Any- 
 how, after we broke camp this morning, leaving Dos- 
 segay behind us, we paddled up stream a few miles 
 and came to a place where we had to portage our 
 canoes and baggage. I presume you know all about it ?" 
 
 21
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Strongheart nodded. "The place where you began 
 your portage," said he, "was not more than a quarter 
 of a mile below here. The river makes a long curve 
 among the hills. You hit a straight trail over them 
 and struck the river again away above the rapids." 
 
 "I can't answer for the straight trail," said Liv- 
 ingston. "It seemed blamed crooked to me, but we 
 did strike the river again all right, and found that a 
 tornado had been there before us and had raised hob 
 with the trail both on land and water. It was almost 
 impossible to lug the canoes over the last dozen yards 
 or so, but we managed it and found a tolerably clear 
 space on the river bank where we had to stop and 
 think. Steve said we'd better camp there for tonight, 
 for it might take him and Joe the rest of the day to 
 find a way around the difficulty. We had grub, and 
 then Steve went off on an exploring trip on one side 
 of the river, and Joe found a place where he could 
 squirm through the wreckage on the other. They 
 agreed that they'd be back a long time before 
 sundown, and Frank and I settled down to a cosy 
 afternoon. He went to pottering with his camera, 
 taking shots at the wreckage, and I well, I had some 
 idea of writing a description of it, 'from our cor- 
 respondent in the field/ you know, only it wouldn't 
 have been for publication. But, I well, I reached 
 for my pocketbook to consult things there, just a 
 picture of a girl, and a letter, you know; I think a 
 good deal of 'em. Naturally. However, I reached 
 for the pocketbook, and blamed if I could find it. 
 You can imagine how I felt, mebbe. Of course Frank 
 
 22
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 hadn't seen the pocketbook, and he was dead certain 
 it wasn't mixed up with the baggage, but I couldn't 
 be satisfied, and I pulled everything to pieces before 
 I could give up hunting for it. Then all of a sudden 
 I had a fool inspiration and knew what had happened. 
 'Frank,' said I, 'that cussed redskin, Dossegay, has got 
 it.' You see, I believed that Dossegay had stolen the 
 pocketbook while I was asleep, and had pretended to 
 be drunk in the morning just so that we would leave 
 him there and give him a good chance for a get- 
 away." 
 
 "If he had stolen it in the night," Strongheart 
 suggested, "he would have had his chance for a get- 
 away then. He could have gone down stream in one 
 of the canoes, and scuttled the other so that you 
 would have had difficulty in pursuing; and he could 
 have left the canoe after a few miles to float on down 
 stream while he took to the woods on foot. Unless 
 your Joe could have happened to scent his steps at 
 the very spot where he left the canoe, you never could 
 have come upon his trail except by accident." 
 
 Livingston listened with an expression of solemn 
 sheepishness. "I told you it was a fool inspiration," 
 said he. "I never thought of anything but my own 
 smart theory that he had faked his drunkenness, and 
 I immediately had an attack of energy. Dossegay 
 had no canoe. Therefore, I reasoned, he must foot 
 it back, and I reckoned that I could travel down 
 stream in a canoe a good deal faster than he could 
 walk, or run. Especially, you see, as I knew there 
 was a swift current where the river makes the long 
 
 23
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 bend. Steve hadn't told us much about it. Simply 
 said we couldn't paddle against the current. Fact 
 is, Steve's a good deal like the Indians; he doesn't 
 seem to care about talking I beg your pardon again. 
 I don't mean any offense by that. There are plenty 
 of white men whom I should like better if they would 
 take pattern from the Indians and cultivate silence. 
 But, you see, the fact is I find it hard to remember 
 that you're an Indian. You seem just like like the 
 rest of us," and Livingston smiled at the lameness of 
 his conclusion. 
 
 Strongheart's features were quite as impassive as 
 those of Mukwa and Dossegay, who were cutting 
 forked stakes and thrusting them into the ground 
 near the fire. The animation he had displayed during 
 Livingston's first moments of returning conscious- 
 ness had departed, and for the moment he seemed to 
 have taken on, or relapsed into the stolidity of the 
 traditional aborigine. But he responded to the white 
 man's last observation. "We are all men," said he. 
 
 "That's it!" cried Livingston, "that's it! and the 
 trouble is that fool whites sometimes overlook that 
 fact, don't they ? But," as the Indian made no further 
 response, "to get on with my particular folly, I de- 
 cided to try and overhaul Dossegay. Frank advised 
 letting the money go. He had his roll safe, and we 
 were where we couldn't spend money, you know, and 
 if we got where we needed it we hadn't any doubt 
 that we could get more by telegraphing home. But, 
 you see, it wasn't the money I cared so much about. 
 I didn't stop to do much thinking, but just hopped 
 
 24
 
 5 T R N G H E A R T 
 
 into the canoe and shoved off. It went all right for 
 some time, and I really thought I was going to make 
 it, when all of a sudden I was simply pitched out, 
 neck and crop! I saw the canoe turn square over, 
 and I guess I don't know what happened after that." 
 
 "You probably bumped your head against a rock." 
 
 Livingston ran his fingers over his cranium. "Guess 
 that's so," he said; "I hadn't thought of it before, 
 but there is a sore spot there." 
 
 "You were very lucky to escape being killed in- 
 stantly." 
 
 "I was luckier still because you were waiting for 
 me. Do you make it a habit to watch at the foot of the 
 rapids for white men who think they know a whole 
 lot that isn't so?" Livingston laughed a little. "You 
 see," he added, "I haven't begun to tell you how 
 grateful I am. I don't seem to know how. I am 
 quite aware that you saved my life " 
 
 "I can't see that there's anything to say about it," 
 Strongheart interrupted, in a tone that implied his 
 wish to dismiss the subject. "You wouldn't expect 
 one man to let another drown, would you? If I had 
 done that, there might have been something to say." 
 
 "In which case I shouldn't have been the fellow to 
 say it," retorted Livingston, and he laughed lightly 
 again, noting with curious interest that there was no 
 responsive smile on Strongheart's part. 
 
 Livingston's narrative had not been as uninter- 
 rupted as it appears to be in this account of it; for, 
 during the first part, Strongheart had helped divest 
 him of his wet clothes and put on the dry ones of 
 
 25
 
 STRONCHEART 
 
 Dossegay. At the end, both Strongheart and Dosse- 
 gay were sitting, quite like primitive savages, their 
 faces to the fire, their backs to the hot sun, while two 
 suits of clothes were steaming, laid across poles rest- 
 ing on the forked stakes that Mukwa and Dossegay 
 had provided. Strongheart spoke to Dossegay in 
 O jib way. They seemed to have a brief argument, 
 after which Dossegay arose, took his moccasins in 
 one hand and went to the bank of the pool. He let 
 himself slowly into the water, and then swam across, 
 holding the moccasins above his head all the way. 
 This done, he flicked the water from his feet with his 
 hands, put on the moccasins, and disappeared in the 
 forest. 
 
 "What does all that mean?" asked Livingston, who 
 had watched the proceeding with increasing wonder- 
 ment. 
 
 "Winterton and Joe will be badly scared when they 
 get back to your camp and learn what has happened. 
 They'll be sure you are dead," said Strongheart. 
 "They may be back now, for the afternoon is most 
 over. Dossegay has hit the trail to relieve their 
 anxiety as soon as possible. He may meet them com- 
 ing back, for of course they'll begin a search for you 
 at once. Wherever he finds them, he'll let them know 
 where you are, and they'll join you before the night 
 is old. Dossegay will take them to our summer vil- 
 lage. You won't do any walking for at least a week, 
 and when you are well, if you still want to go on to 
 Long Lake there's a trail from the village that we 
 can show you. If you don't care to stay with us 
 
 26
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 until you can walk, Winterton and Joe can take you 
 back to the Soo, or anywhere else." 
 
 "Don't mention it!" cried Livingston; "I should 
 like nothing better than to recuperate in your village, 
 if you'll let me." 
 
 "You will be welcome." 
 
 "Thanks, but you haven't satisfied my curiosity 
 about Dossegay. He went off without anything on " 
 
 "He took his moccasins to protect his feet. That 
 is all he needs. I told him I thought your friends 
 ought to be notified in a hurry, and he agreed with 
 me." 
 
 "But I thought it was agreed that he should wear 
 my clothes." 
 
 "They are still wet, you see. He didn't care to 
 wait for them to dry. He's all right. And he thought 
 you'd be better pleased if your clothes were kept for 
 yourself." 
 
 Livingston said, "Well, by Jove!" and attempted 
 no more lucid expression on the subject, but his 
 thoughts were remarkably active. There was an un- 
 expectedness about the red man's fine feeling that 
 fairly made him gasp. He began to rejoice at the acci- 
 dent that had brought him into such intimate contact 
 with what? "We are all men," Strongheart had 
 said. Why should a manly act on the part of an 
 Indian be unexpected? Livingston was not altogether 
 clear about it, in which respect he was not different 
 from many another white man of more years when 
 he comes to his first knowledge at first hand of Indian 
 character. 
 
 27
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Why did Dossegay swim across, instead of taking 
 to the ford?" asked Livingston. 
 
 Strongheart smiled faintly as he replied, "He said 
 he would feel more like running if he had the chill 
 of the water." 
 
 There was a buzz of questions in Livingston's brain, 
 but he did not ask them. How came it that Strong- 
 heart had such command of English? What was the 
 personal history of the man whose thoughts seemed 
 to be those of civilization, and who yet was manifestly 
 a dweller in the wilderness ? How did he live ? What 
 was his occupation? And so on; but Livingston 
 found himself possessed by diffidence. He could not 
 question this man as if he were a child, or an un- 
 tutored savage like Dossegay and Joe. There was 
 something in Strongheart's manner, even when he 
 sat undisguised by garments of civilization, or sav- 
 agery, which forbade anything that smacked of in- 
 quisitiveness. Livingston could only guess what it 
 was, for he was young and little given to analysis; 
 bat he observed the sombre cast of Strongheart's 
 features, and he suspected unexpressed offense at 
 some of the things which the white man had said. 
 
 "I made a break pretty nearly every time I spoke 
 of Indians," thought Livingston, ruefully, "and I sup- 
 pose that makes him tired." 
 
 As there seemed to be no other way to account for 
 the Indian's silence, Livingston decided that it would 
 be the safest policy to refrain from opening a con- 
 versation. So he covertly watched the man, for the 
 Indian fascinated him more now than at the begin- 
 
 28
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ning, and, as he looked, Livingston began to be im- 
 pressed by the singular nobility of Strongheart's 
 features. Often enough he had heard the phrase, 
 "The noble red man," uttered always in a tone of 
 humorous disparagement,, and not once had it 
 occurred to him to question what was the origin of 
 the phrase, or whether it had any serious justification. 
 Certainly until now he had never seen an Indian who 
 deserved it, but Strongheart, so far as appearances 
 went, fulfilled the demands of the characterization. 
 His forehead was broad and high, his nose aquiline 
 and large enough to be an element of strength in the 
 composition of his face, mouth and chin were of 
 classic mold, the cheeks, despite the high bone, were 
 rounded, and the man's eyes, severe, almost morose 
 in repose, softened wonderfully when he smiled, and 
 suggested an exceptionally affectionate nature. 
 
 "He's a stunner," was Livingston's conclusion, and 
 doubtless no other summary could tell as much with 
 as much accuracy and brevity. 
 
 Mukwa occupied himself in replenishing the fire, 
 turning the drying garments, and paying visits of 
 critical inspection to the canoe. At length, evidently 
 obedient to a brief suggestion from Strongheart, he 
 went into the woods whence he returned shortly with 
 two freshly cut poles about seven feet in length. 
 Then he brought boughs of tamarack, cedar, and 
 balsam, and laid them, with the rifles, across the poles 
 so as to form a litter. Strongheart put on all bis 
 clothes, except his coat, which he reserved for a pillow, 
 laying it over Livingston's imperfectly dried garments 
 
 29
 
 5 T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 "It's time to go," said the Indian. "It will be slow 
 work, and you may not be able to stand it without 
 resting pretty often. But I think we can get there 
 before dark." 
 
 "You mustn't stop to rest on my account," Living- 
 ston responded; "it's humiliating to have to go on a 
 litter." 
 
 "Can't be helped," said Strongheart, and, without 
 further ado, he lifted the white man to the fragrant 
 bed. 
 
 Mukwa took the foot and walked ahead. "Are you 
 easy?" asked Strongheart, looking straight down into 
 Livingston's eyes from his position at the head of 
 the litter. 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" Livingston answered gratefully. 
 "It couldn't be better. You've turned my accident 
 into a luxury. I'm only sorry for you men." 
 
 "You needn't be. You'd do the same for us." 
 
 The way led for at least three quarters of the dis- 
 tance continuously upward, and always in the woods. 
 There was no conversation. Whenever Mukwa 
 wanted to rest, he simply stopped, and the carriers 
 lowered the litter to the ground with the utmost care. 
 It was apparent that Mukwa's need of resting was not 
 for want of breath or muscular endurance, but hun- 
 ger for his pipe, which had not been out of his mouth 
 from the moment Livingston first saw him until the 
 journey began. Even then he tried to smoke and 
 carry too, but he was unable to keep the tobacco 
 alight; so, the moment the litter was on the ground, 
 out came a match, sometimes the bowl was refilled. 
 
 30
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 and there followed a period of placid enjoyment until 
 Strongheart uttered a short word that the invalid 
 interpreted correctly enough as "Move on," and the 
 journey was resumed. 
 
 The end came quite suddenly. Livingston had 
 closed his eyes in his effort to suppress any sign of 
 pain or fatigue, and when a slight change in his 
 position, and the quicker pace of the carriers occurred, 
 he opened them and looked around. He saw the 
 blue level of a broad lake dotted with islands and 
 bounded by green hills; a little way ahead, where 
 there was a narrow, clear space between the forest 
 and the shore, was a semicircle of tepees, wigwams, 
 and rude huts of bark and boughs; fires were smold- 
 ering before these dwellings, and here and there were 
 groups of men, seated on the ground, smoking; at 
 the margin of the lake some young women were wash- 
 ing camp utensils ; near them sat older women, shawls 
 drawn up over their heads, apparently watching the 
 dying light upon the lake. From somewhere came a 
 sudden shrill cry, and then a confusion of children's 
 voices; the young women suspended their work and 
 turned toward the carriers; the old women turned 
 their heads ; one man arose from a group, looked, and 
 pointed ; another stood up, then another, and presently 
 the whole population of the village moved slowly to 
 meet the carriers, except the children, who ran fast 
 and shouted as they came. 
 
 31
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE CAMERA FIEND 
 
 It seemed to Livingston that few if any questions 
 were asked, and yet that the curiosity of the people 
 was aroused to an extraordinary degree, and that a 
 great crowd blocked the way. His head spun, and 
 he was not sure of his impressions. Mukwa promptly 
 took advantage of the press in front to put down his 
 end of the litter, regardless of a sharp exclamation 
 from Strongheart; and, once his hands were free, he 
 spoke not a word, but set his pipe going. Strong- 
 heart let down his end of the litter, perforce, and 
 just then the crowd of dark faces, young and old, 
 men and women, parted to make room for a patri- 
 archal figure, a man of great stature and rugged 
 features, whose sparse hair, falling to his shoulders, 
 was snow white. He looked sharply at the man on 
 the litter, and spoke in a quick, incisive way to 
 Strongheart, who answered briefly, but manifestly 
 with sufficient thoroughness, for Livingston heard his 
 own name in the rush of unfamiliar syllables; and 
 then the patriarch gave a command which Mukwa 
 and Strongheart obeyed at once. The litter was 
 picked up and carried past several dwellings to a 
 large conical structure of birch bark in the middle of 
 the semicircle. 
 
 32
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "That is my father, Chief Kiwetin," said Strong- 
 heart, on the way. "He makes you his guest." 
 
 "I thought so," Livingston responded feebly. He 
 wished the tedious journey were at an end, and bit- 
 terly begrudged the last few paces to the wigwam. 
 
 He was presently set down in the dark, fragrant 
 dwelling, and Strongheart lifted him from the litter 
 to a bed which seemed the perfection of comfort, for, 
 though, like the litter, it was made mainly of boughs, 
 it was better made, and there were blankets to give 
 it similarity to the familiar beds at home. Most of 
 all, it gave such a sense of permanency and rest; no 
 more jolting, no more sudden changes of position. 
 The triangular doorway was darkened by dusky faces 
 peering in, but none entered save Strongheart, the 
 Chief, and Mukwa. The latter went away at once, 
 and nobody troubled to ask him questions. Chief 
 Kiwetin sat on the ground and passed his fingers over 
 Livingston's ankles. 
 
 "Does it hurt?" he asked. 
 
 "Like the devil!" said the sufferer. 
 
 There followed a brief conversation with Strong- 
 heart in O jib way. "He says," said Strongheart, "that 
 if it was his affair, he would have the medicine 
 woman right away." 
 
 "Medicine woman!" echoed Livingston, "I thought 
 it was medicine man among your people." 
 
 "We have both. It is for you to say." 
 
 There was unmistakable coldness in Strongheart's 
 tone. Evidently he had read in Livingston's remark 
 the traditional contempt of the paleface for red man 
 
 33
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 doctoring. "Another break!" groaned Livingston, 
 silently, and aloud he said as earnestly as possible, 
 "Strongheart, I am in your hands absolutely. I 
 shouldn't have the power to say anything if it hadn't 
 been for you. I couldn't get a white doctor to look 
 after me inside of three days at the least, even if I 
 wanted to, and I don't want to. Please understand 
 that I am not only ordinarily grateful, but apprecia- 
 tive there's a distinction, you know and I want 
 you to do whatever your good judgment dictates." 
 Strongheart's face lighted with a smile of pleasure. 
 He made no spoken comment, but turned to the Chief, 
 who, without waiting for an interpretation of Living- 
 ston's words, slipped to the wigwam door and called 
 in O jib way. Other voices joined in an unintelligible 
 chatter. There was a constant shifting of curious 
 faces at the door. Somebody came in and set a chip 
 fire going in the middle of the wigwam. Presently a 
 woman pattered softly to the bedside and examined 
 Livingston's feet. "She asks how you feel?" said 
 Strongheart. "There's some pain, and I'm faint," 
 said Livingston. He was impatient for something to 
 be done, and he pulled himself together with an effort 
 to avoid delirium. He tried to extract amusement 
 from the situation, wondering if he would be treated 
 to an exorcism of evil spirits with the beating of the 
 tom-tom in the traditional Indian manner. What a 
 letter that would make to Dorothy ! He tried to 
 imagine himself describing the ceremony in a humor- 
 ous way, so that she might get all the fun of it with- 
 out any of the anxiety. Surely her sweet sympathy 
 
 34
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 would be with him if she knew what had happened, 
 and was even now happening. If only she could be 
 wafted into the wigwam, so that he might hear her 
 voice, and feel her soft hand on his brow! Glorious 
 dream! He shut his eyes that it might take more 
 definite shape. 
 
 "Eh? What?" said Livingston, for he was dimly 
 aware that Strongheart had spoken. 
 
 ''She says there are no bones broken." 
 
 "I suppose that's good news. What's she going 
 to do?" 
 
 There was no verbal response, but he felt moist 
 bandages wound upon his ankles and drawn tight, 
 and he marveled at the deftness of touch, the evident, 
 skill with which the work was done. Strongheart 
 lifted his head and held a cup to his lips. Ah! how 
 refreshing it was in spite of the bitter flavor! "I'd 
 like some more of the same," gasped the sufferer, as 
 he was laid back on the bed. "By and by, if neces- 
 sary," said Strongheart; and then the chatter of the 
 people outside grew faint, the light of the wigwam 
 fire dimmed, and Livingston knew only the things 
 that come and go in sleep. 
 
 It was daylight when he awoke and recognized a 
 voice just without the wigwam. 
 
 "Frank! Frank Nelson!" he called excitedly. 
 
 "Hello!" came a stentorian reply. There was a 
 momentary darkening of the doorway, and a splendid 
 specimen of wholesome, young American manhood 
 hurried in and grasped Livingston's hand. "Dick, 
 old man!" he cried, his face beaming with delight. 
 
 35
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Manifestly his heart swelled with millions of words 
 which got in each other's way, for he dropped down 
 beside the bed and smiled steadfastly at his comrade. 
 If he had been a girl but he wasn't, and the lump 
 in his throat was successfully swallowed. 
 
 "I s'pose you were anxious about me," suggested 
 Livingston. 
 
 "Anxious to beat the band," Nelson assured him, 
 "and you're not to talk about it now. It's all right, 
 Dick. All you've got to do is to keep quiet." 
 
 "Not talk about it!" Livingston protested indig- 
 nantly. "What's the use of being alive if I canlt talk ? 
 You don't mean to say that that Indian medicine 
 woman is so modern that she's advised that her pa- 
 tient be kept quiet?" 
 
 "No, Dick. That's Steve's dope, and mine. He 
 feared you might be in danger of fever 
 
 "I'm in danger of nothing but starvation. Bring 
 Steve in here and see what he thinks now." 
 
 Nelson went to the door and called, "Oh ! Steve !" 
 and a moment later a man who might be anywhere 
 from fifty to sixty-five years old came slowly in. His 
 face was as rugged and dark as an Indian's, but his 
 eyes were blue. Winterton was quite as genuine a 
 product of the wilderness as the Indians themselves, 
 and current report had it that there was a strain of 
 Indian blood in him from two or three generations 
 back. Be that as it might, no Indian excelled him 
 in knowledge of forest life, and much of the coun- 
 try itself, far to the north, he knew better than did 
 the aboriginal inhabitants. He was bom in Ojibway 
 
 36
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 la*d, the son of a Hudson's Bay Compa-ny factor, 
 and he had been himself a factor until his post was 
 abandoned in recent years. Winterton has said that 
 he never saw a rowboat until he was more than forty 
 years old. He never seemed to hurry, but his arms 
 were untiring when he sat in the canoe, his long 
 legs never rested when on the tramp, and though there 
 was an almost constant twinkle of good humor in 
 his blue eyes, it was seldom that he contributed to 
 the joviality of the camp at night; and a long suc- 
 cession of sportsmen from the States who had em- 
 ployed him as guide, had pumped him in vain for 
 stories of his exploits. 
 
 "I understand you've been a great moose hunter," 
 said one of his patrons, on an occasion when it seemed 
 as if the veteran woodsman were on the point of re- 
 laxing and giving some account of himself. 
 
 "I dunno," he answered reflectively. "I never 
 killed a moose for sport, but I've had to shoot a 
 many for food and the skins. I tried once to count 
 'em up. I got as far as sixty, 'n' then found I wasn't 
 sure I hadn't counted one bull twice, 'n' I got so 
 mixed I give it up. But that brought it to several 
 years before the last moose I shot." 
 
 "The total would probably be quite a hundred, 
 then, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Mebbe," and Winterton pulled unemotionally at 
 his pipe. Apparently nothing had ever happened 
 when he killed a moose. So far as he could be 
 induced to tell of it, he would have occasion for one of 
 those sombre dwellers in the forest, whereupon he 
 
 37
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 would go forth, find one and shoot him. That was all. 
 No clever sounding of the moose-horn, no arduous 
 pursuit on snow-shoes, no tale of emergency, and the 
 unerring aim by which he never failed to put the 
 bullet in the right spot. A dry fellow, Winterton; 
 his patrons had always given him up in despair, but 
 not one of them had ever failed to recommend him 
 to his friends, or to re-employ him if good fortune 
 took him again to O jib way land. 
 
 "Dick seems to believe that his think-tank is all 
 right, Steve," said Nelson, and then, turning to the 
 invalid, "How are your poor old feet, Dick?" 
 
 "I am conscious that they are still attached to my 
 legs," was Livingston's solemn reply, "by which I 
 apprehend that they are not quite normal." 
 
 Nelson nodded in a satisfied way. "It echoes emp- 
 tily of the classroom," said he, "but it doesn't seem 
 to be dangerous. Is it, Steve?" 
 
 Winterton squatted beside the bed and laid his 
 hand on Livingston's brow. Then he felt his pulse. 
 "You've come out of it right lucky," ne said. "Hun- 
 
 "I could eat my shoes." 
 
 "You won't have to." 
 
 He went to the door and said a few words in Ojib- 
 way. Then he returned to the bed and sat on the floor. 
 "Ye give me a good scare, young man," said he, 
 gravely. 
 
 "I suppose I did," Livingston responded with 
 proper remorse in his tone, "but, I say! it was 
 worth it for making me acquainted with Strongheart. 
 
 38
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 By Jove! Frank, there's a fellow you must know." 
 
 "I've already talked with him," said Nelson. "We 
 got his account of the affair when we got in last 
 night." 
 
 "Well, isn't he the most impressive man you ever 
 met? I never saw anybody who interested me so. 
 I'd like to ask a load of questions about him, perhaps 
 Steve can answer them, but, you know, there's some- 
 thing about him that kind of shuts you up from in- 
 quiring of him about himself. It was funny, but when 
 I first waked up after he got me out of the river, I 
 thought he was a white man, like Steve, you know, 
 browned by outdoor life. It took my breath away to 
 find that he was an Indian. And son of the Chief, 
 too! It makes me feel like a discoverer. Come, 
 Frank, what do you think of him?" 
 
 "I should say straightaway that Strongheart's all 
 right," Nelson answered. "He interests me much as 
 he does you, though, of course, I've had no such op- 
 portunity as you had to get a line on him. But, 
 talking of impressiveness, Strongheart isn't in it with 
 our own Dossegay. Ha ! how do you suppose I felt 
 when I saw a naked savage running at me from the 
 woods ?" 
 
 "Tell me about it. Didn't you laugh when you knew 
 who 'twas ?" 
 
 "Hardly. Steve had just come back, and he was 
 white at the gills' from what I had to tell him about 
 you. 'He'll be lying on the shallows just below the 
 pool,' said Steve. Perhaps your imagination is equal 
 to grasping how that made me feel. I had my camera 
 
 39
 
 STRON G HE ART 
 
 in my hands ready to pose Steve for a picture I'd 
 thought out, and I was gaping at him, unable to speak, 
 while he was hustling things together for a hurried 
 departure, when I heard the sound of running steps, 
 and, supposing it was Joe coming back, I looked 
 around. Holy cat ! there was that vision of primitive 
 savagery loping toward me from the woods as if he 
 meant to have my scalp before I could say my prayers. 
 I tell you, Dick, what with the shock about your un- 
 worthy self, and the terrifying nature of Dossegay's 
 appearance, my blood simply froze, and I think my 
 hair would have offered a mighty good hold for the 
 scalper. I didn't recognize Dossegay, and I don't 
 believe 'twould have made any difference if I had. 
 How should I know what madness had seized the 
 natives ? Why shouldn't I suppose that this undressed 
 warrior was only the forerunner of a bloodthirsty 
 party? I tell you, I was plain scared, and up to date 
 I'm not ashamed to own it." 
 
 "Blamed if I blame you," said Livingston. 
 
 "You hain't telled him what you done," suggested 
 Winterton, with a grin. 
 
 Nelson laughed a little sheepishly. "I s'pose I've 
 got to," he said. "It's between ourselves, and now 
 that it's all over well, there was a fraction of a 
 second when I was already scalped, burned at the 
 stake, and my appetizing remains picked by the crows. 
 Then my mind got busy, and so did the rest of me. I 
 let out a yell that should have discomfited a whole 
 tribe of savages, and my thoughts leaped to my rifle 
 which, as luck would have it, was leaning against the 
 
 40
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 tent within arm's length; but, luckily for Dossegay, I 
 had another idea, simultaneously, you understand. 
 Here was I with my camera all charged for a shot, 
 and such an opportunity! You know how quickly 
 the mind acts, Dick. I wasn't over the first shock of 
 terror at sight of the oncoming aborigine, before I 
 had reckoned that I could get a picture of him and 
 still have time to shoot him before he got to me." 
 
 Livingston began to chuckle. "The ruling passion," 
 said he. 
 
 "That's all right, laugh away," Nelson retorted. "I 
 can see the humor of it in retrospect. Anyhow, I up 
 with the camera, sighted and snapped just as the war- 
 rior, stripped for the fray, yelling, as I thought, a 
 battle cry, burst from the cover of the foliage. Then 
 I laid down the camera and grabbed the rifle. Do 
 you know, I got that blamed instrument of slaughter 
 half way to my shoulder, and in one second more 
 there would have been a hole in Dossegay, when, biff! 
 an avalanche hit the side of my head so that my ears 
 ring with it yet. My rifle dropped to the ground, and 
 I sprawled full length beside it. I wasn't stunned, oh 
 no ! I was enough awake to hear our venerable friend 
 here say, 'Ye damn fool, he says Livingston's alive!' 
 You see, luckily again for Dossegay, Steve had been 
 startled by my yell. He got into action without pre- 
 liminary parley and saved me from being the hero of 
 a tragedy and Dossegay from being the victim of it. I 
 tell you, there was nothing slow about Steve on that 
 occasion." 
 
 "Couldn't be," protested Winterton, mildly, while 
 41
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 he grinned in agreeable contemplation of the scene 
 that Nelson recalled. "I've seen young men from the 
 States too ready with their guns before. I didn't go 
 fer to knock ye down, as I said at the time, but I jest 
 had to prevent murder, and I s'pose I wasn't pertickler 
 'bout weighing my fist," and Winterton continued to 
 grin amusedly. 
 
 "Oh ! if only I could have seen it !" sighed Livingston. 
 
 "I'd like to see that pictur' when it's prented," said 
 Winterton. 
 
 Nelson assured him that he should have a copy. 
 
 "I s'pose you recognized Dossegay, didn't you, 
 Steve?" suggested Livingston. 
 
 "Hm-hm, and I hearn what he said." 
 
 "So did I," said Nelson, "and that's all the good 
 it did me. If I had heard Dick's name in the course of 
 Dossegay's yell, I might not have been quite so foolish. 
 I'm not sure, but anyhow, I didn't hear it. What do 
 you suppose he called you, Dick?" 
 
 "Why ask me to guess, if he didn't use my name ?" 
 
 "Well, sir, prepare to sit up ! That bronze Mercury 
 alluded to you as nothing less than 'The Chief.' '' 
 
 "Chief! Me?" and Livingston turned a dubiously 
 inquiring look at Winterton. 
 
 "What he said," Winterton replied, "was 'Ogema 
 bimadad.' That means 'The Chief lives.' It was the 
 quickest way he could tell the news he was bringing. 
 The Ojibways often say 'ogema' where we would say 
 boss, or employer." 
 
 "Just the same, you've been dubbed chief," said 
 Nelson. "Ogema ! think of it. Big Chief Livingston I 
 
 42
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 I shall see that all Columbia is informed of your dis- 
 tinction." 
 
 "Better be shy of that, Frank. But, go on with 
 your story. That isn't all of it, is it?" 
 
 "Well, what followed was anti-climax. We had no 
 longer tears to shed over your untimely demise, so 
 that all my emotion was thrown away, and I could 
 return to the exercise of my normal sensibilities, which 
 proceeded at once to be violently shocked at Dossegay's 
 unconventional garb. If he'd only had a plug hat, 
 or an umbrella, but moccasins, hoc ct praeterea nihil, 
 was simply too much, or too little, rather, for my 
 native prudery, and I proceeded to correct the de- 
 ficiency. You've had a good deal to say about my 
 tenderfootedness in including a suit of pajamas in my 
 camp outfit. Useless encumbrance, said you. Ever 
 after this, hold your peace on the subject. I got 'em 
 out, made Dossegay put 'em on, and, thus clad, when 
 Joe got back from his exploring expedition, he guided 
 us to this village where we arrived about an hour after 
 you dropped to sleep." 
 
 "Dossegay in pajamas!" exclaimed Livingston, 
 shaking with laughter. "I'd like to bet one other 
 thing happened. A thousand to one you photographed 
 him in that get-up." 
 
 "You win," Nelson admitted, whereupon Livingston 
 shrieked. 
 
 Just then Joe came in with coffee and bacon, and 
 other things agreeable to a starving man, and Living- 
 ston, propped up with blankets and skins, applied 
 himself to breakfast. 
 
 43
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IMPRESSIONS OF SOANGETAHA 
 
 During the meal, Nelson told Livingston how Win- 
 terton and the Indians had set up their tents at the 
 end of the village semicircle, and Livingston wondered 
 if he ought to have himself moved there. Steve vetoed 
 this suggestion promptly. 
 
 "You're Kiwetin's guest," said he, "and the old man 
 would feel badly if you should quit. Of course you 
 can do so 'f you like, and the Indians will keep on 
 being good to ye, but " 
 
 "That settles it," Livingston interposed. "If they 
 will let me stay here, I'd rather. Horses couldn't drag 
 me out. Guest of a chief ! Ha ! it's something worth 
 thinking of. The only thing I thought was that I 
 might be crowding the place." 
 
 "Don't look so, does it?" asked Winterton, letting 
 his eyes roam over the roomy wigwam. "This would 
 accommodate a dozen men, an' they'd be lonesome at 
 that. Eighteen would be comfortable, an' 'f 'twas 
 pushed you could get twenty-four in here an' still have 
 room fer the fire an' trappings." 
 
 "It's certainly big enough, but I supposed the Chief 
 had a family to correspond." 
 
 "No. Kiwetin has only his son, Soangetaha. The 
 old man's squaw died a couple years ago. There was 
 
 44
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 daughters, but they're all married. So him an' the boy 
 live here alone, 'cept when the's visitors, which ain't 
 seldom. Indians are mighty fond of visitors." 
 
 "I'm here to stay, then; but say, Steve, tell me 
 about Strongheart. You know all about him, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, I've watched him grow up." 
 
 "What " But the question had to be postponed, 
 for at the moment Chief Kiwetin and Strongheart 
 came in. Kiwetin went straight to the bed with out- 
 stretched hand. 
 
 "Bozho, bozho, bozho, bozho," said he, cheerfully, 
 and added several other "bozhos," the universal word 
 both of greeting and farewell among the Ojibways. 
 Then, when Livingston grasped his hand, he said in 
 English, "You look pretty well," to which he added 
 something in Ojibway, with a side glance at his son. 
 
 Strongheart also shook hands, and his face was 
 bright with pleased smiles, but he suppressed his own 
 greeting in favor of translating the Chief's words. 
 "My father hopes that you had a good sleep." 
 
 "Splendid!" Livingston answered. "The night 
 passed like a flash. I remember nothing of it, which 
 must speak well for the bed. Tell your father that 
 I thank him for letting me come in here." 
 
 It was Kiwetin who responded, "You are welcome 
 to stay as long as you like." 
 
 Livingston was surprised, for the old man's de- 
 pendence upon Strongheart's services as interpreter 
 had led him to suppose that he knew but a few phrases 
 of English. It was on the tip of his tongue to make 
 
 45
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 some ingenuous comment, and it would have been 
 unmistakably complimentary, but memory of his 
 "breaks" of the day before restrained him, and he 
 contented himself with saying, "Thank you again, sir." 
 
 Kiwetin sat on a bed across the wigwam, and 
 Strongheart took his place on another. The Chief 
 drew forth his pipe and lighted it, methodically, quite 
 as if he had settled himself for a long day of idleness. 
 Joe looked in and, seeing that Livingston had finished 
 breakfast, entered unceremoniously and removed the 
 dishes. 
 
 "Your canoe is all right again," said Strongheart. 
 
 "So ?" exclaimed Livingston, again surprised. "How 
 do you know? Where is it?" 
 
 "Here. Mukwa went after it as soon as you had 
 been put to bed last night." 
 
 "You don't say! 'Way back there for the canoe? 
 Not alone?" 
 
 "Alone. He brought it in before midnight, and by 
 sunrise he was pitching it. It's all right for use now." 
 
 "I never seen a man so fond of a canoe as Mukwa," 
 said Winterton. 
 
 "All Ojibways are fond of canoes," said Strong- 
 heart, gravely. "Why shouldn't they be? What is 
 so useful ? Not even the caribou can equal the canoe. 
 You have put many an hour, yourself, Steve, into 
 mending broken canoes." 
 
 "I have," the woodsman admitted. 
 
 Livingston noted Strongheart's quick jumping to 
 the defensive. To the white man's apprehension 
 nothing had been said that could possibly wound a 
 
 46
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 reasonable man, and yet there was that in Strong- 
 heart's tone as well as his words, to suggest that he 
 was, if not hurt, suspicious that Winterton meant to 
 slight him and his people in some way. Livingston 
 was disturbed. He looked covertly at Winterton to 
 observe whether he were affected by the young In- 
 dian's almost aggressive manner. The woodsman's 
 face was as impassive as that of the stolidest red man, 
 and he pulled away at his pipe quite as if the exercise 
 were one of duty. A period of silence followed that 
 was embarrassing to Livingston. At length the Chief 
 spoke in O jib way, and Strongheart translated. 
 
 "My father says he fears you may be disturbed by 
 a council that is to be held today. Some men are 
 coming to talk over a plan for buying a part of our 
 lands, and the debate will take place just at the door 
 of the wigwam, if the weather is pleasant; inside if 
 it rains." 
 
 "Do you mean that I'll be in the way?" asked Liv- 
 ingston, anxiously. 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "The talk might keep you awake," said the Chief. 
 
 "I'd rather stay, if I may. I never saw an Indian 
 council." 
 
 More Ojibway from the Chief, which Strongheart 
 explained as leaving the matter wholly to Livingston. 
 Nelson asked if he might remain in the wigwam also 
 during the council, and the Chief himself answered 
 at once, "Yes ; why not ?" So that was agreeably set- 
 tled, and there was another period of smoke and 
 silence. Again Kiwetin opened conversation. "You 
 
 47
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 come from the States?" he asked. The question was 
 directed impartially at both white visitors, but the 
 Chief's eyes chanced to meet those of Nelson, who 
 replied, "Yes, New York. I am from New York City, 
 and Dick, here, is from Albany, though both of us 
 belong in New York City at present, for we are stu- 
 dents at Columbia College." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, tranquilly. 
 
 Livingston's eyes were on Strongheart, and he was 
 struck by a sudden and remarkable change in his ex- 
 pression. The grave repose, which is so often inter- 
 preted as Indian stolidity, gave way to flashing eyes, 
 a perceptible tightening of the lips, that made him 
 look almost like another man. Livingston actually 
 thrilled at the suggestion of hardly restrained passion 
 in Strongheart's glance at him, which was hastily 
 averted, and he wondered feverishly what it meant. 
 It might have been hatred for everybody white, so 
 intense was it. Strongheart seemed conscious of an 
 undue manifestation of feeling, for his brow con- 
 tracted slightly, and he screened his eyes by looking 
 at the ground. 
 
 "We're up here just for a little fishing and hunting 
 where the fish and game haven't been cleaned out," 
 added Nelson, by way of friendly encouragement to 
 talk. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin. 
 
 "Steve, here, was taking us to a lake which he said 
 no paleface had visited, when Dick tried to kill him- 
 self by shooting the rapids/' Nelson continued, and the 
 Chief again said "Yes, yes," as if in benignant appro- 
 
 48
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 bation of the venture. Nelson found himself helpless 
 in the silence that followed, but it did not endure long 
 before a woman paused at the door and looked in 
 doubtfully. It was the medicine woman, Kiwetin's 
 sister, as the visitors learned later, and, at the Chief's 
 prompt command, she entered. By daylight she ap- 
 peared to be a well preserved, portly squaw, mucli 
 younger than the Chief, and, despite her professional 
 standing, palpably embarrassed in the presence of the 
 whites. There was a self-conscious smirk on her face 
 as she went to Livingston's bed and drew away the 
 covering from his feet. Not once did she look him in 
 the eyes. Hesitatingly at first, and then with growing 
 confidence, she unwound the bandages. She had no 
 need to invite observation of the effects of her treat- 
 ment, for Kiwetin crossed the wigwam and looked, 
 Winterton laid down his pipe and bent over the bed, 
 and Strongheart put his head close to the others. 
 Livingston's interest in the scene was greater than in 
 his own condition, and, at the risk of disturbing the 
 inspection, he raised himself to see, not so much his 
 injured members, as the grave party at the bedside. 
 Nelson looked on, too, but, feeling himself somewhat 
 an outsider, he was content to stand while the others 
 knelt. There was an exchange of observations in 
 Ojibway, in which Winterton took part. The medi- 
 cine woman put on fresh bandages, and stood up; 
 Winterton took his former position and resumed 
 his pipe; Strongheart went back to the bed that had 
 been his seat across the wigwam. 
 
 "She done her work well," said Winterton. 
 49
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Do they all agree to that ?'' asked Livingston, find- 
 ing it almost impossible to repress manifestation of 
 the entertainment the scene gave him. 
 
 "Hm-hm," assented Winterton. 
 
 "How soon do they think I can walk?" 
 
 Strongheart interpreted this question to the medi- 
 cine woman, and, when she ha'd answered, "She says 
 that you can walk as soon as the feet are well." 
 
 "Thank you," said Livingston, with perfect gravity ; 
 and he wondered whether any white physician could 
 have framed a more professionally evasive answer. 
 
 Then Chief Kiwetin and the medicine woman went 
 out. 
 
 Winterton remarked that in all his experience he had 
 never met a better Indian doctor than Wabunequay, 
 which was the medicine woman's name. 
 
 "Then you think I'll have a speedy recovery?" asked 
 Livingston. 
 
 " 'Twont be long 'f you keep quiet." 
 
 "I've got to see Mukwa about some work," said 
 Strongheart, rising, and he crossed the wigwam to 
 shake hands with the invalid. "You'll have to be pa- 
 tient, Livingston," he said. "In a day or two, if you 
 like, Mukwa and I will take you out on the lake in a 
 big canoe, and perhaps you can do some fishing." 
 
 "It's mighty kind of you to think of that, Strong- 
 heart," said Livingston, quickly, as he gave the Indi- 
 an's hand a hard grip. "I shall be tickled to death to 
 go just as soon as the medicine woman says I can. 
 Thanks, old chap, the sooner the better." 
 
 Strongheart's face glowed with childlike delight 
 50
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 during Livingston's little speech, but he said no more 
 and went his way. 
 
 "That fellow's a beaut, when he's pleased, isn't he ?" 
 said Nelson, watching the retreating figure striding 
 down to the margin of the lake. 
 
 Livingston ignored his chum. "I'm glad he's gone !" 
 he exclaimed. "I couldn't hold in my questions a 
 second longer. Come Steve ! Open up, and tell us all 
 about him." 
 
 Winterton took his pipe from his mouth and stared 
 in good-natured perplexity at his eager patron. 
 "Why," said he, in that difficult way of his that sug- 
 gests, to those who know, the progress of a load of 
 logs over a rough trail in Winter, "I dunno 's much 
 's all that. He's a good feller, Soangetaha is. There's 
 them as thinks he's sp'iled, but I dunno. I've allus 
 stuck to it that he'll come out right yit." 
 
 "Spoiled!" cried Livingston, indignantly. "Good 
 Lord! I never saw a man who seemed less like it. 
 Who says he's spoiled?" 
 
 "His people. Some on 'em." 
 
 "Why, I'd like to know?" 
 
 " 'Cause he's eddicated." 
 
 Livingston was speechless for a moment with in- 
 dignation. Then, "Is it possible," he demanded, "that 
 his people are so blind, or stupid, or prejudiced, or 
 just plain savage, that they can't appreciate him? 
 Why ! he's an ornament and an honor to his race !" 
 
 "Mebbe," said Winterton, noncommittally. 
 
 "You seem to be in doubt yourself, yet you said he 
 wasn't spoiled." 
 
 51
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Winterton knocked the ashes from his pipe. If he 
 must be involved in argument, it was useless to try 
 to smoke, too. "Well, you see," he responded, "what 
 I say is, he's got it in him all right, but tain't out yit, 
 not so's to satisfy his people, an' make him useful, 
 an' make them trust him. Tain't all onesided, though. 
 The's some as look to him to be the chief when Kiwe- 
 tin dies, an' they hold stubborn to the idee that Soan- 
 getaha will be a great chief. Black Eagle's one on 
 'em. You hain't seen him yit, but you will, 'cause he's 
 likely to be to the council." 
 
 "What does Black Eagle say? Who is he?" 
 
 "He's one of the council. Kind of sub-chief. He's 
 a real old-time Indian if the's one left anywheres, and 
 as sech he ain't agin eddication, only he wants to see 
 something come outen it, an' he ain't full satisfied yit 
 with Soangetaha. But he sticks to his faith in him, 
 though." 
 
 Livingston scowled, for the woodsman mystified 
 rather than enlightened him. "How does Strongheart 
 himself feel?" he asked. 
 
 "Can't say, 'cause he never told me. I hearn him 
 once argyfying with Kiwetin an' some of the other 
 old uns. He was playin' up civilization as the real 
 thing, an' they was tellin' him to bring it on, an' show 
 'em, an' he couldn't make good, 'cept to wear clothes 
 that ain't Ojibway, 'n' talk things they can't under- 
 s-.and." Winterton paused a moment, but Livingston 
 said nothing, for it was as plain as could be that the 
 woodsman's brain was struggling with the problem 
 involved in expressing just what he felt. "Seems to
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 me," he resumed, "that Soangetaha's got what you 
 might call the civilization fever. He's be'n to school, 
 'n' had a taste o' city life, or something like it com- 
 pared to what's here, an' now he's back he's kin.d o' 
 like a man in the middle o' the week looking both 
 ways fer Sunday." 
 
 "Well, by mighty!" cried Livingston, "he belongs 
 in civilization. What do you think, Frank?" 
 
 "I must say he seems out of place here," Nelson 
 replied. 
 
 "It is hard," said Winterton, reflectively, as if he 
 had not heard the others. "He's all Indian, and he's 
 had a sight at white-man ways a durned sight mor'n 
 I have. Now I'm satisfied to stick to the bush, but I 
 ain't Indian. It's my choice. Soangetaha hain't got 
 no choice, 'n' with his fever on, it's dum hard, I 
 reckon, fer him to give up the books, 'n' fine clo'es, 'n' 
 whatever it is that makes the cities pleasant to him, 
 'n' git down to the sod agin. Reckon he's kind o' 
 half baked." 
 
 The woodsman resumed his pipe, and Livingston 
 immediately made an announcement. "The one way 
 to get at this," he said, "is to talk straight to Strong- 
 heart, and I'm going to do it." 
 
 "That's right enough," Winterton responded. "He's 
 tackled to you boys as I never seen him do to any 
 others. I ruther think he'll talk to you. Most In- 
 dians are dum slow in the talking line, slower'n I be, 
 unless they gets worked up among themselves. Then 
 they talk each other deef. But Soangetaha, he's dif- 
 
 runt." 
 
 ~,,
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE USELESSNESS OF EDUCATION 
 
 "The sooner I get at this the better," said Liv- 
 ingston, in such tone of conviction as would have 
 been inspired by the most desperate emergency. 
 "What's he doing now?" 
 
 Winterton remarked as he went to the door, "You 
 won't gain time by trying to hurry an Indian," and 
 then reported that Strongheart seemed to be occu- 
 pied with Mukwa in pitching a big canoe. "Reck- 
 on," added Winterton, "he's getting ready to take 
 you out on the lake." 
 
 "Well," said Livingston, impetuously, "that's a 
 highly worthy occupation, and it shows all the more 
 how much he deserves from me anything I can do 
 for him, but the canoe can wait. And as for hur- 
 rying an Indian, if Strongheart is so far civilized as 
 you think, he can stand being hurried. If he can't 
 stand a straight talk, the sooner I know it the better, 
 for then I shan't be interested in him any more. Tell 
 him to come in, Steve." 
 
 "Civilization don't change a man's skin," said 
 Winterton, rather cryptically. He removed his pipe 
 to say it, as if to let his tolerant smile take the 
 
 54
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 sting from his observation, and, without waiting for 
 a retort, strode slowly toward the shore, where 
 Strongheart and Mukwa were at work. 
 
 ''Dick," said Nelson, "don't you think you'd better 
 tackle Strongheart alone? Wouldn't you rather? 
 You mustn't think I'm not interested; for I am ; so 
 much so that I believe I ought to sacrifice my inter- 
 est and clear out, lest my presence should hinder 
 the fellow from talking freely." 
 
 "Why! do you think it would do that?" 
 
 "It might. With all his civilization, he's still an 
 Indian, and v he may be shy of strangers. He's been 
 a blamed sight closer to you than to me, and so 
 might open up to you. [Lt's just this, Dick: my 
 presence is an unnecessary risk. See him alone, and 
 tell me about it afterward." 
 
 "There's something in that, Frank. All right, run 
 away and play with your camera for a while." 
 
 "I will. There's a pappoose on a board swinging 
 from a tree just behind the village. I've got to get 
 that picture before the chance is gone." 
 
 Nelson was hardly out of the way before Strong- 
 heart appeared at the door. "Want to see me, Liv- 
 ingston?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, come in, please. I want to ask a favor of 
 you, Strongheart." 
 
 The Indian's eyes glowed with pleasure. "Any- 
 thing in my power, Livingston," said he. 
 
 "It's in your power, all right, all right. I want 
 you to tell me about yourself. Now, don't jump into 
 your trunk and shut the lid after you," as he ob- 
 
 55
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 served the Indian's eyes contract, and his expression 
 revert to the immovable gravity characteristic of 
 his race. "I'm not asking out of vulgar curiosity. 
 Seems to me you must know that already, even if it 
 was only yesterday that you introduced yourself by 
 dipping me out of the brook. I feel a tremendous 
 interest in you. I suppose it's because you're 
 different from any Indian I ever saw. Anyhow 
 I'm going to be blunt, and if it hurts I'm 
 sorry; but it can't be helped, for bluntness will 
 show exactly what I mean, and I don't want any 
 misunderstanding. The point is, Strongheart, you 
 seem to be awfully out of place. You're no sav- 
 age-" 
 
 "My people are not savages," Strongheart inter- 
 rupted resentfully. 
 
 "Sure they're not, old chap ; but neither are they 
 educated men like yourself." 
 
 "Yes, that's the difference you allude to. Educa- 
 tion! What good does it do? It makes the differ- 
 ence. And of what use is that?" 
 
 "Well," said Livingston, somewhat staggered, "I 
 might put up an argument on that if I had time to 
 prepare it, but I must say I'm not ready for it off- 
 hand. Do you mean to say that you deny the value 
 of education?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't I? Has it done me any good to 
 get a glimpse of things I can never attain? Does 
 the smattering of Latin drummed into me at school 
 make me a better or a wiser man here?" 
 
 He stood up when he began to speak, and as he 
 56
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 concluded he swung both arms out in a magnificent, 
 comprehensive gesture. 
 
 "Latin!" exclaimed Livingston, "you know 
 Latin?" 
 
 "I can conjugate pugno and decline hasta" 
 
 "My paradigms were amo and mensa," said the 
 white man. 
 
 "So were mine, and they were appropriate to your 
 level of civilization. Fighting words fit my condi- 
 tion better. So I remember them." 
 
 He spoke with intense bitterness, and his expres- 
 sion suggested unutterable rebellion. Livingston 
 was awed. "I think," he said slowly, and without a 
 trace of his first impetuous eagerness, "that I can 
 understand how Latin is of no service to you, but 
 education generally surely you must prize it. The 
 very fact that it distinguishes you from your fellow 
 men, sets you apart and above them, must be a sat- 
 isfaction. Isn't it, now?" 
 
 Strongheart waited a bit before replying, and Liv- 
 ingston inferred that he was struggling to master 
 himself. "It sets me apart, but not above them," 
 he said presently. " We can't understand each 
 other, Livingston, unless you take into account my 
 circumstances, and you can't do so because you are 
 more ignorant of Indian life than I am of the white 
 man's. I am blunt, too, you see." 
 
 "You can make me understand your circum- 
 stances, old chap." 
 
 "Perhaps I can. You said I seemed out of place, 
 and that means that you see the general fact. Can 
 
 57
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 you understand what a horrible jealousy I felt 
 when your friend told my father that you were col- 
 lege students? Before then I had been jealous of 
 my race, reading into everything you said the white 
 man's ordinary slur upon my people. So far as you 
 and your friend were concerned, I really felt that 
 what you said was due to simple ignorance, that 
 you intended no slur, and I felt that I had a right 
 to be on the same level with you, giving and taking 
 just as you do among yourselves, but the habit of 
 thought is strong, and, as you were strangers, I 
 could not help resenting everything that might be 
 twisted into a reflection on my people. For I am 
 proud of them ! Don't you let anything I say blind 
 you to that fact. Their honesty, their courage, 
 their devotion to each other, their entire absence of 
 greed, aye, their history, fill me with pride! I see 
 their traits' the better for being a little apart, but I 
 have seen the other life, that life that appeals to and 
 demands a broader, more diversified intelligence, 
 and that life I have learned to love. J had enough 
 of it to arouse in me desires that I knew not before, 
 and that never can be satisfied here. So, when 
 Nelson spoke of college, all of a sudden those de- 
 sires were stirred as if there were a tempest in my 
 brain. A thousand thoughts came at once, and among 
 them was one that I will tell you. I thought how a 
 few hours before one of these superior white men 
 was in my power, mine! I had to commit no act of 
 hostility or treachery; I had but to stand still and 
 let him save himself if he could; and that all his 
 
 58
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 superiority was not equal to the peril that overwhelmed 
 him ; that the inferior redskin brought him back from 
 death and enabled him to return presently to that 
 large, diversified life; and that the cursed redskin 
 would have to stay here and slowly stagnate, rot in 
 the wilderness!" 
 
 "By mighty, Strongheart, you shan't do it! You 
 must" 
 
 "Wait, Livingston. I have been talking to myself 
 more than to you, and have not yet shown you what 
 education has done for me. You have seen so far 
 just the froth on the surface. Let's get under that 
 and see what's stewing there. A well meaning man, 
 inspired by a good missionary, gave me my oppor- 
 tunity for schooling. Quite a number of people took 
 turns in directing my studies. One was for teaching 
 me plain things, what you call, I think, the three R's. 
 So I learned to read and write, and solve problems in 
 arithmetic. Another believed that I should be turned 
 into a missionary, and I was befogged with theology. 
 Another was sure that my talents deserved the higher 
 education ; hence my Latin, and my ability to find the 
 value of .v given a and b. And so it went until a per- 
 son of supereminent wisdom perceived that what the 
 Indian needed was manual training. His hands should 
 be skilled in a trade whereby he might live. And so 
 I was taught to make harnesses. My chief benefactor 
 died. The others did not lack interest, perhaps, but 
 they had other subjects, and, at all events, I was a 
 harness-maker. So back I was sent to my people. 
 Livingston: only one man in all the band over which 
 
 59
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 my father is chief owns a horse. What have we 
 dwellers in the forest to do with horses ? Our meagre 
 farms are ploughed by oxen, or the one horse is loaned 
 out from plot to plot. What am I to do with my 
 knowledge of harness-making? What shall I do with 
 my Latin and my algebra? And even my writing; 
 some Ojibways have occasion to write a letter once a 
 year. I am their willing secretary, but what does it 
 amount to? Surely I do not need to more than sug- 
 gest the situation. What education has given to me 
 is waste material for the life I must lead. Perhaps 
 you think of my theology. I can only say that if ever 
 I had dreamed of being a missionary, the theology 
 that was crammed into me would have turned the 
 dream into a nightmare. Do you begin to under- 
 stand? 
 
 "What is it to me that I know something of the 
 history of people who perished from the face of the 
 earth before you whites knew that the Indian existed ? 
 What does it mean to me that the world teems with 
 people who think things of which the Indian never 
 dreamed ? whose houses are put down to stay ? whose 
 every impulse is forward, to the attainment of ideals 
 still beyond, who have learned the deepest secrets of 
 Nature, who have harnessed the lightning, and made 
 the boiling kettle do their work? What is it to me 
 that these are the people who accomplish things, who 
 rule the world, and yet whose refinement is, to the 
 Indian's, as the razor blade to the stone tomahawk? 
 Education! It has opened my eyes, Livingston, to 
 beautiful facts on the one hand, to the ugliest on the 
 
 60
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 other. It has smoothed some of my rough edges, per- 
 haps, and by so much unfitted me for Indian life. Bet- 
 ter, far better, if I had been left in contented ignor- 
 ance!" 
 
 "I can't believe it!" cried Livingston. "When a 
 man's view has been broadened, it must be better for 
 him." 
 
 "There may be some mysterious benefit to arise from 
 it some time," said Strongheart, gloomily, "but surely 
 you must admit the uselessness of my particular at- 
 tainments." 
 
 "Yes, here, but you do not belong here, Strong- 
 heart. When man emerges from the er " it was 
 on the tip of his tongue to say "savage," but he caught 
 himself in time and said, "primitive state, he should 
 stay on the level to which he has raised himself. I 
 remember reading that Colonel Pratt, the head of the 
 Indian school at Carlisle, said that 'if you would 
 civilize the Indian, bring him into civilization and 
 keep him there' or something to that effect. I under- 
 stand now what he meant. You are one of us, Strong- 
 heart, and I mean to see that you stay with us." 
 
 The Indian, who had been standing half way across 
 the wigwam during his bitter speech, strode to the 
 bed and held out his hand. "Thank you," said he, 
 his eyes glowing with gratitude and pride ; "your gen- 
 erous intention is impossible of accomplishment, but 
 it makes me eternally your friend that you should think 
 of it." 
 
 "But why impossible?" urged Livingston. "Surely 
 you are not a prisoner in the wilderness?*' 
 
 61
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Would you have me go to some city and seek em- 
 ployment as a harness-maker?" 
 
 "No; there must be something better for you than 
 that." 
 
 "I can do nothing else except such unskilled labor 
 as any strong man can do. It is not that I object to 
 work. I'd make harnesses, or load ships, if such labor 
 brought the advantages that I see in your civilization. 
 They do not. I'd rather stay among my own people 
 than herd with yours in their crowded tenements. Tell 
 me, does the life of your laboring people seem in any 
 way superior to ours ?" 
 
 "Inferior, so far as I can see," said Livingston. "I 
 confess I don't know much about the life of our work- 
 ing people, but, seen from the outside it is certainly 
 sordid and narrow compared with the life here. The 
 point is, Strongheart, you feel yourself qualified by 
 Nature for something higher." 
 
 "Yes, but there's no use talking about it." 
 
 "Yes, there is! The next point is that you didn't 
 go far enough in the education line." 
 
 "Certainly. A smattering of this and that 
 
 "Then you must finish your education. What's the 
 matter with your entering Columbia? Frank and I 
 could be a whole lot of use to you there." 
 
 Strongheart looked as if the suggestion took his 
 breath away. The young white man's words gave to 
 the alluring dream a distinctness of outline such as 
 never had been the case with those longings that had 
 risen in the Indian's mind without external sugges- 
 tion; and Livingston's confident manner dangled the 
 
 62
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 bait of possibility before the red man's hungering soul. 
 For the moment it seemed to Strongheart that the 
 dream might be realized, for what could not these 
 white men do? Much as he may condemn, or affect 
 to despise civilization, the observing Indian respects it, 
 for he sees its power, and when a representative of 
 the pale race wins the Indian's respect as an individual, 
 he is, subconsciously to the Indian perhaps, a wizard 
 in whose hands the very traditions of an unlettered 
 people dissolve more readily than snow melts under 
 the April sun. For, of all things open to Indian ap- 
 prehension, his traditions are the most permanent. 
 Knowledge slowly uproots superstition, the clean-cut, 
 Christian myth supplants the vague doctrines of In- 
 dian polytheism, and eventually the traditions fade 
 into memories recalled only with shamefaced amuse- 
 ment; but by then the Indian's forests have disap- 
 peared before the pioneer, his hills have been leveled 
 by the miner and road-maker, even his lakes have be- 
 come unrecognizable with their smoking, shrieking 
 fleets. 
 
 "Come," said Livingston, as Strongheart stood 
 transfixed with desire, "why shouldn't you? How old 
 are you?" 
 
 "I'm not sure," Strongheart replied huskily; "twen- 
 ty-four, I think." 
 
 "Well, there's many a 'Special' at Columbia older 
 than that. It would be all right if you were forty. 
 Now then!" 
 
 "It is impossible, Livingston. You do not yet un- 
 derstand. We are a patriarchal people. The govern- 
 
 63
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ment has told us to elect our chiefs, and we obey, but 
 we elect whom we think right, and my people think 
 the son of the Chief is he who should guide them. 
 You asked if I were a prisoner in the wilderness? 
 Perhaps that's the way to put it, for I am bound by 
 the customs of my race. There is such a thing as 
 obligation" he spoke with unusual hesitancy, the 
 effect, though Livingston guessed it not at the moment, 
 of a powerful temptation. "My people expect me, 
 with my superior education, to be wiser in their inter- 
 ests than were my fathers." 
 
 "Then," cried Livingston, "they must see that your 
 services would be more valuable with more education." 
 
 "You can't make them think so. Many now feel, 
 as I do, that I have too much. More would make me 
 impossible in the wilderness, save as the white man 
 comes here for recreation and amusement. No, I am 
 bound to my people. I could not go to Columbia, and 
 then return to them." 
 
 "Well," and Livingston hesitated a moment, de- 
 ciding eventually not to utter the thought that Strong- 
 heart's argument suggested, for, to the white man, the 
 obligations of Strongheart to his people were of less 
 interest than the obligations of Strongheart to him- 
 self. Suppose the handsome young Indian did go 
 back to civilization never to return; was it thinkable 
 that the simple forest-dwellers would be any the 
 worse? Hardly, for they would pursue their tranquil 
 lives as before, lives in which, now that the days of 
 Indian wars have gone, nothing happens from year 
 to year save so many births, so many deaths, the color- 
 
 64
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 less routine of an unprogressive community. So, 
 "The cost wouldn't have to be counted, would it?" 
 asked Livingston. 
 
 "We do not look like a wealthy people, do we?" 
 Strongheart replied with a smile. "There is much 
 land hereabout that is still ours, and the white man 
 wants it. Some are coming today to talk sale. How- 
 ever, I can answer your question by saying that while 
 the cost would have to be considered, it would not 
 stay in the way not of itself. You see, my people 
 would regard it as an investment." 
 
 He looked steadfastly at Livingston, who returned 
 his gaze as steadily. In their mood it was not wise for 
 either to comment on the silent message that went 
 from one to the other; not wise even for Livingston 
 to say, "We understand each other" ; for it was palpa- 
 ble to Livingston that the Indian was tempted by the 
 glamor of the broader life to go to it and let his people 
 do without him ; and Livingston believed, with all the 
 earnestness of clean-minded youth, that the future of 
 the individual Indian was of more importance than 
 the shadowy advantages that might accrue to his peo- 
 ple in retaining him. 
 
 "I am going to talk with your father about it," said 
 Livingston, decisively. 
 
 Strongheart smiled faintly, and then his face took 
 on the characteristic gravity of his race. "You will 
 not persuade him," said he. "The very mention of 
 my father is enough to remind me how foolish I am 
 even to dream of what you propose." 
 
 "That's all right," said Livingston, with undimin- 
 65
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 ished confidence, "I'll put up a good argument at the 
 first opportunity I get. Tell me, He doesn't need an 
 interpreter, does he?" 
 
 "No more than I do, though, of course, there are, 
 many words he does not know, and he may make mis- 
 takes." 
 
 "I noticed that he spoke English readily enough, 
 and yet he often said things in Ojibway for you to 
 interpret. Was that with the idea of making you 
 useful?" 
 
 "Oh, no. He would be sorry to make laughable 
 errors, and when there is an interpreter at command; 
 he won't trust himself. There are many Indians like 
 him in that respect." 
 
 "Then I'll tackle him alone." 
 
 66
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SQUARE-DEALERS 
 
 Strongheart went back to the work which he and 
 Mukwa had begun together, and his place was im- 
 mediately taken by Nelson, who, having obtained a 
 number of film presentments of babies and wigwam 
 interiors, had been idling anxiously until the confer- 
 ence should be ended. "Well?" said he, by way of 
 asking for a report. 
 
 "Frank," Livingston responded, "Strongheart is a 
 great man!" 
 
 It was the sincere tribute of enthusiasm based on 
 its own generous sentiment instead of on knowledge, 
 fired not by the subject's deeds but by the passionate 
 egotism of his speech. How much or little Strong- 
 heart deserved the encomium, Livingston was to 
 learn by degrees, when occasion should arise for 
 action, and he had not long to wait for a revelation 
 of that sort ; but at present he was as positive in his 
 estimate of his new found friend as if the Indian's 
 career had been under observation for a lifetime, for 
 of such is hero worship, and such the glorious 
 spontaneity of youth. 
 
 Nelson caught the infection mildly, and was prop- 
 erly interested when his chum outlined the conversa- 
 
 67
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 tion and announced his plan of inducing the Chief 
 to send Strongheart to Columbia. 
 
 "Will he do it?" he asked. 
 
 "Not if it isn't put up to him, and that's what I 
 must do soon so as to give him plenty of time to 
 think. He'll be slower than Strongheart, because 
 he's less civilized, but he'll come to it. He's got to ! 
 You see, here I am, knocked out, useless to myself, 
 and I propose to make it my business to save 
 Strongheart to civilization." 
 
 "Missionary work," said Nelson. "Captain Dick 
 Livingston, of the New Salvation Army, devoted 
 especially to the preservation of semi-civilized ab- 
 orig-" 
 
 "You be hanged! You couldn't laugh me out of 
 this scheme even if you seriously tried to." 
 
 "Serious laughter?" 
 
 Livingston scorned to retort. "See where the 
 Chief is," said he. "Perhaps you can send him in 
 now." 
 
 Nelson surveyed the village from the wigwam 
 door. "Guess you'll have to postpone the confab," 
 he said. "The Chief and quite a crowd are at the 
 shore watching a flotilla of three canoes away out 
 on the lake. Probably they are bringing the men 
 we have heard of who are coming to negotiate for 
 some of the Indians' land." 
 
 "Hm," murmured Livingston, & little disap- 
 pointed. "I suppose I shall have to wait till after 
 the council. Meantime I'll write letters. Open my 
 kit and get out my writing pad, will you, Frank? 
 
 68
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 They've got to be written sometime, you know," 
 he concluded apologetically. 
 
 "Good idea," said Nelson, complying with alac- 
 rity. "It'll help you kill time. Must be awfully dull 
 cooped up here." 
 
 "Hasn't been a dull minute yet, and I don't mean 
 that there shall be. You mustn't think you've got 
 to hang around here to coddle me, old fellow. What 
 with letters, and my scheme for Strongheart, there's 
 plenty to occupy my mind. Be a good fellow, now, 
 and go out. There'll probably be a picture or two 
 in the arrival of the flotilla. Perhaps the [Indians 
 will put up some sort of ceremony. You mustn't 
 miss it." 
 
 "Thanks, Dick. I should feel just as you do if I 
 were in your place, but are you quite sure you won't 
 want anything for an hour or so?" 
 
 "I can yell if I do." 
 
 "Of course. Well, then, so long. And, by the 
 way, Dick, as you've got so much time for it, why 
 not save me one letter? Write to Dorothy, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Dorothy?" echoed Livingston, who found it nec- 
 essary to squint hard at the tip of his fountain pen. 
 
 "Yes. She'll take it kindly of you, I'm sure. She 
 expects letters from me, and of course I ought to 
 write her. You explain how busy I am getting pic- 
 tures for her souvenir book. You might say you vol- 
 unteered to write for me, or that I asked you, just as 
 you like. Writing brotherly letters is such drudg- 
 ery, you know. Will you?" 
 
 69
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Livingston looked up at his chum. There was no 
 sparkle in Nelson's eyes, no twitching of his lips to 
 suggest anything but entire seriousness in his re- 
 quest. "Yes," said Livingston, calmly, "I'll write to 
 Dorothy." 
 
 "Thanks, old fellow. I'll add a postscript if you 
 think it would be better." 
 
 "I guess it won't be necessary," said Livingston, 
 and for a full minute after his chum's departure he 
 stared at the spot where he had stood, wondering 
 if it were possible that Nelson concealed a joke 
 beneath his apparent earnestness. "How could he ?" 
 he ^queried silently. "Dorothy herself doesn't know, 
 and, besides, it would be most unlike Frank to string 
 a fellow on that subject, or do any joshing that could 
 be regarded as offensive. He meant it. He simply 
 can't get up interest enough in his own sister to 
 write to her. If she were my sister, now, I'd bet 
 but it was so obvious that Frank would adore 
 Dorothy if she were not his sister, that Livingston 
 forbore to state his wager. 
 
 He had recourse to the pocketbook, the loss of 
 which had been tfce occasion of his misadventure in 
 the Pangisibi, and so of his acquaintance with 
 Strongheart, and took from it the letter which had 
 seemed more valuable to him than his money. Many 
 times he had pored over it since it came to him at the 
 Soo. There was nothing in it that required study, 
 nothing incomprehensible except the uplifting fact 
 that Dorothy Nelson had condescended from her an- 
 gelic state to write to such a commonplace mortal as 
 
 70
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 himself; it was merely the friendly letter of a sen- 
 sible girl to her worthy boy-friend, untinctured by 
 sentimentalism, devoid of gush a wholesome, nat- 
 ural missive from one who had been a friend for 
 three long years, an eternity at twenty-one ; but it 
 was the first letter that Frank Nelson's sister ever 
 had written to Dick Livingston, and he studied it 
 now as if love's exegesis might discover between the 
 lines, if not in them, the reflection at least of the 
 ardent love for her that had taken possession of him. 
 It was not such an easy task to write to Dorothy 
 even if she were another fellow's sister, not in the 
 beginning. God bless me ! what hesitation over the 
 purely conventional address ! We (we old ones) 
 "Dear Sir" the tradesman, and "Dear Madam," or 
 "Dear Miss" the occasional correspondent, without 
 a thought of the significance attaching literally to 
 that initial word, but when it comes to using it 
 in addressing a girl one really does regard as dear, it 
 makes a difference, doesn't it at twenty-one? It 
 seems so preposterously daring, such an assumption 
 of desirable but not confessed relationship, such a 
 challenge to the maid's sensibilities. What if she 
 should read in the conventional word the whole 
 meaning with which it is really charged, and take 
 offense ? Oh, absurdity ! delightful, wholesome ab- 
 surdity ! 
 
 Livingston had written the date line, "The Wilder- 
 ness, July 20, 1901," and had poised his pen over the 
 otherwise virgin sheet for many seconds, perhaps 
 tvvar minutes, before he took another spasmodic 
 
 71
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 look at her letter. Sure enough, there it was, "Dear 
 Dick," and so, with devilish boldness, he began 
 "Dear Dorothy, I am writing in the wigwam of an 
 Indian Chief," and proceeded then with sufficient 
 fluency to write an unsentimental, wholesome letter, 
 just such a letter as a sensible boy should write, and 
 sometimes does, to a worthy girl friend. 
 
 Long before the letter was finished, the three 
 canoes had brought the men who came to negotiate 
 for land. There were five of these enterprising voy- 
 agers, all from across the line, and all strangers to 
 Kiwetin and his tribesmen, except one, Tom Marsh. 
 who had dealt with the Ojibways in one way and 
 another for so many years that he had acquired some 
 knowledge of their language. Either because he dis- 
 trusted his proficiency, or because it was thought 
 politic to have an Indian act as interpreter, the party 
 included Pierre Larocque, a half-breed with whom 
 everybody in Kiwetin's band was acquainted, al- 
 though he owed Kiwetin no allegiance. Pierre was 
 on the government roll as an O jib way, and nomi- 
 nally was settled on a reservation far eastward, but 
 he was seldom there, save on the days when the 
 agent arrived to distribute the Indians' funds. Then 
 Pierre appeared at the Council House with the rest, 
 and waited with ill suppressed impatience for his 
 share of the money. Some of his acquaintances as- 
 serted that he drew double pay from the government 
 by posing under an assumed name as member of a 
 distant tribe, and that his incessant journeying was 
 due to the necessity of putting in periodical appear- 
 
 73
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ances at each reservation ; but this is to be doubted, 
 the allegation being probably an ingenuous tribute 
 to Pierre's unusual perception of the value of money. 
 
 The white strain in him was responsible for a 
 mania for bargaining, and seeking to gain money 
 by a kind of effort which, to the self-deceived op- 
 erator, is not work. If Pierre had been all white he 
 would have been a promoter. He was not popular 
 with the Indians, partly because of his mixed blood, 
 but more because his honesty was in doubt. 
 Methods which to his apprehension were simple 
 matters of business, seemed to Kiwetin's people 
 tainted with some manner of elusive obliquity. 
 Whites who understood this were chary of engaging 
 him as interpreter, but Pierre vaunted himself as a 
 man of influence all over Ojibway land, and from 
 time to time obtained such employment as that 
 that now brought him to the summer village. 
 
 Chief Kiwetin deemed it advisable to have an un- 
 derstanding with Pierre before the business in hand 
 came under discussion. "Let us settle the thing 
 now," said the Chief. "If we sell to these men, we 
 sell at the price agreed on, and nobody, you or any- 
 one else has any claim to any part of it. Is that 
 so?" 
 
 "It is so," Pierre replied. "Jj am here merely to 
 say what these people say. They employ me. I 
 am satisfied with what thy pay me." 
 
 "Then it is understood," said Kiwetin. 
 
 Winterton overheard this conversation, and knew 
 what lay behind it. On an occasion when Pierre 
 
 73
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 had acted as interpreter in a negotiation which led 
 to the employment of several members of Kiwetin's 
 band by a white contractor, Pierre had claimed a 
 commission. Kiwetin and the rest were mystified. 
 It was beyond their comprehension that the interpre- 
 ter had rendered them a service which entitled him 
 to the slightest financial consideration. The matter 
 was argued in council for days. Pierre's argument 
 may readily be inferred ; it was such as any white go- 
 between would have employed. To the Indians it 
 smacked of robbery. They had sold their labor for 
 a price; so much work, so much money; if Pierre 
 was to be paid for obtaining them the opportunity 
 to earn money, where was the money to come from ? 
 Obviously it could not come from what the contractor 
 paid them for their work, for, according to the 
 bargain, work and money balanced. When the work 
 was paid for, there would be no money left over, 
 unless the contractor had it, in which case it was 
 certainly not the part of the Indians to take it from 
 him and pay it to Pierre. If Pierre had a right to 
 what he called a per cent for obtaining work for the 
 Indians, he should go to the contractor who wanted 
 hands; the Indians had not asked for work. 
 
 Pierre never obtained the commission, and so Ki- 
 wetin's people had no specific grudge against him, 
 but the memory of his obliquitous attempt to mulct 
 them still rankled, and it was one of the reasons 
 why the proposition of the visiting Yankees was 
 pondered and scrutinized with extraordinary care. 
 
 There was no ceremony attending the reception of 
 , 1
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 the white party. Marsh introduced his companions 
 to Kiwetin with free and easy cordiality, and they 
 were introduced also to some of the older men, 
 among them Black Eagle, of whom Winterton had 
 spoken to Livingston and Nelson. The Indians 
 shook hands and said "Bozho," gravely, every man 
 lit his pipe, and there was a rambling conversation 
 on the weather, fishing, and other safe topics, for 
 an hour or more. Meantime the Indians who had 
 accompanied the whites as paddlers, set up tents 
 at one end of the village, and presently the whole 
 community was engaged in the midday meal. This 
 finished, the old men sat on the ground in front of 
 Chief Kiwetin's wigwam, and the whites perched 
 on a log that lay conveniently near. 
 
 These men from the States, it appeared, were 
 eager to be on the friendliest terms with the Indians, 
 ambitious to be known as square-dealers. They had 
 no desire to take advantage of the Ojib way's inex- 
 perience in business; on the contrary, they would 
 be happy to initiate their dusky friends into modern 
 methods, and enable them to benefit much more than 
 they could if the transaction were of the usual sale- 
 and-purchase order. Co-operation is what we want, 
 men and brothers, said the whites. You have land 
 on which stands a great forest of white pine. We 
 can turn that forest into money. It will be a work of 
 years; it will require the building of roads, and the 
 employment of many men, preferably Indians, in fell- 
 ing trees, driving logs, cooking, and so forth. That 
 means the outlay of much money before any comes 
 
 75
 
 back. Very well, we have the money, you the trees 
 and labor. We propose to share with you. We will 
 employ the Indians at the usual wages and pay 
 cash, and we will give the tribe a one-third interest 
 in the company for the right to make roads, cut 
 and remove trees. It is all regular. We are incor- 
 porated under the laws of one of the States, which 
 means that our company is subject to the govern- 
 ment at Washington, and therefore sound, upright, 
 and all that is worthy of confidence. 
 
 Such, in very brief, was the substance of the 
 speech in which Marsh stated the proposition when 
 the council at last proceeded to business, and after 
 Marsh had spoken ten minutes or so, Pierre spoke 
 for at least a half hour, every Ojibway listening 
 intently, the whites doing their best not to look 
 bored. Marsh had the charter of the company, bear- 
 ing a great seal of state, to offer as evidence of some 
 part of his assertions, and he also had a contract 
 drawn up ready for signature by which the com- 
 pany bound itself to convey so many shares of stock 
 to the tribe in consideration of the privilege of tim- 
 ber cutting on a specifically defined tract of land. 
 The latter detail required a second speech from 
 Marsh in explanation of the unusual method of de- 
 fining the boundaries of the tract in question. His 
 friends, in their altruistic anxiety to do the wholly 
 square thing, had chosen not to make vague bound- 
 aries by lines from hill to hill, or from hill to lake- 
 end, and so forth, a method which in an unsurveyed 
 country was surcharged with possibilities of misun- 
 
 76
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 derstandings and disputes, but had decided to offer 
 the Indians a definition of boundary that would be 
 indisputable even if the lakes dried up and the hills 
 blew away in the night. They proposed to define 
 the tract in terms of latitude and longitude, which, 
 as anybody would tell them, was fixed by the British 
 government, and couldn't possibly be misinterpre- 
 ted; and the rough map of the tract, herewith sub- 
 mitted, showed how the parallels of latitude and the 
 meridians of longitude would run. The tract would 
 include a part of the lake before them, useless 
 for timber-men, but, like other lakes, falling 
 naturally within the space required. And after 
 all, the lakes and the hills would still be the 
 Indians' property when the Company had done 
 its work. 
 
 A good forty-five minutes of Pierre's eloquence 
 followed, and afterwards Kiwetin and Black Eagle 
 asked questions. These and the answers pushed the 
 hours along until evening, when the Chief intimated 
 that the Indians must have time to think it over. 
 With many manifestations of cordial good feeling, 
 the white men shook hands all around and with- 
 drew to their camp. 
 
 So far as the Indians were concerned the discus- 
 sion went on uninterruptedly. The squaws patiently 
 kept the corn soup hot, and waited for their men to 
 come and eat it. The largest group gathered about 
 Black Eagle, who was respected second only to 
 the Chief himself, and this group Kiwetin joined 
 after he had courteously accompanied the visitors 
 
 77
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to their camp and invited them to come to his wig- 
 wam after supper for a social smoke. 
 
 "I'd like to know something more about this lati- 
 tude and longitude business," Black Eagle was say- 
 ing, as Kiwetin drew near. 
 
 "So would I," said Kiwetin. "The words are new 
 to me, and I cannot understand how these people 
 find the lines which, as they say, are always in the 
 same place, and yet nobody ever sees them." 
 
 "There are lines everywhere if you choose to think 
 so," declared Tall Pine, the spokesman of those who 
 had been favorably impressed by the white men's 
 proposition. Tall Pine was the youngest man who 
 had voice and vote in the Council. "They have ma- 
 chines," he continued, "for finding where the lines 
 are when they travel on the big bitter sea water far 
 to the east. If the lines can be found on water, 
 surely they can be found on land." 
 
 This was a reasonable view, everybody admitting 
 that anything that could endure on the unstable 
 element, would readily be fixed on the solid; 
 "But," urged Black Eagle, "I don't feel sure yet 
 about these lines. Let's ask Soangetaha. He might 
 know." 
 
 "Surely," said Kiwetin; "let us see what he says." 
 
 Strongheart was summoned from supper, which 
 he was taking with Livingston and Nelson. "Yes," 
 he said rather sulkily in reply to the question, "there 
 is such a thing as latitude and longitude." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "It's a way the whites of all nations have of de- 
 78
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 ciding where the boundary lines lie. It has some- 
 thing to do with the sun, I believe." 
 
 "Well, suppose the lines are fixed when the sun is 
 far to the north in summer; won't they change when 
 the sun goes south in winter?" 
 
 Strongheart looked uncomfortably at the Chiei, 
 who asked the question. "I don't know," he an- 
 swered, "but I think not. Livingston and Nelson 
 might know." 
 
 Black Eagle was manifestly disappointed that 
 Strongheart could not throw positive light on the 
 subject, but he approved the suggestion of asking 
 the white visitors about it. "They seem to be honest 
 young men," said he, "and, anyway, there's nothing 
 they want of the Indians." 
 
 Kiwetin also approved the suggestion and said 
 he would undertake the inquiry; then, although this 
 point was the only one that seemed to stand in the 
 way of progress to a conclusion on the main subject, 
 the Chief remained talking with Black Eagle and the 
 others for quite an hour. There was no hurry; Liv- 
 ingston could not run away even if he wanted to ; 
 Nelson surely would not go without his chum ; the 
 night was young; indeed, the summer was but half 
 passed ; the forest of white pine would stand for an- 
 other year, if necessary. Not that the Chief 
 reasoned with himself in this way, but that such 
 would have been the manner of his reasoning if he 
 had considered the matter from the viewpoint of 
 time. The probable fact is that time did not enter 
 into his mental processes at all, that being the last 
 
 79
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 item which the Indian comes to appreciate as he 
 approaches civilization. So Livingston might never 
 have been examined with regard to his knowledge 
 of latitude and longitude, but as it happened, Kiwe- 
 tin drifted into the wigwam just after dusk. At the 
 moment Livingston was alone, Nelson and Winter- 
 ton having started for their quarters for the night. 
 Livingston was eager to take up the matter of Strong- 
 heart's further education, but the Chief put his ques- 
 tions, and they had to be answered. The young white 
 man did his best to explain the subject, and Kiwetin 
 followed with apparent understanding. 
 
 "Then," said the Chief, "these men talk truth, is 
 it?" 
 
 "It is true," Livingston answered, "that boundary 
 lines established in terms of latitude and longitude 
 are exact and indisputable." 
 
 He was about to phrase his reply in simpler words, 
 when Marsh and two others of the company ap- 
 peared for the social smoke, and Kiwetin went to 
 the door to greet them. They did not come in, for 
 the noise of a ruction in the village attracted their 
 attention, and they went forth together to learn 
 what it was about. Nelson, who had lingered to 
 watch a large family at supper in a wigwam, chanced 
 to witness nearly the whole affair. He heard a wo- 
 man's voice raised in frightened protest, and turned 
 in time to see Strongheart rush upon a white man 
 and strike him violently in the face. The white man 
 staggered but kept his feet, and, in the brief interval 
 before he returned the Indian's attack, Nelson saw 
 
 80
 
 STKONGHEAKT CAUGHT THE WHITE MAN BY THE THROAT. 
 
 Page 81.
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 a good looking young woman stepping hastily 
 aside. She went to the door of a small wigwam, 
 where she stopped and watched the fight, holding 
 the hem of her apron against her lips with both 
 hands. 
 
 The white man, snarling with rage, parried a blow 
 or two before he fully recovered his balance, for 
 Strongheart was following up his assault furiously, 
 and then, for a moment, there was an exchange 
 of ineffective blows, the white saving himself by 
 superior skill against the Indian's superior force. It 
 was only a moment, for Strongheart, manifestly in- 
 furiated by his antagonist's resistance, crowded 
 upon him, regardless of blows that stung his cheeks 
 and mauled his body, caught the white man by the 
 throat with both hands and lifted him off his feet, 
 shaking him, and tightening the grip on his wind- 
 pipe till his jaws parted in terror and pain. A yelling 
 crowd had begun to gather from the first, through 
 which Winterton lumbered heavily but swiftly, like 
 a buck moose breaking through the bush. He seized 
 Strongheart by the arms, wrenching his hands from 
 the white man's throat. 
 
 "Easy, lad, you'll kill him !" exclaimed Winterton. 
 
 "Damn him ! that's what I want to do !" Strong- 
 heart responded fiercely. 
 
 Winterton spoke then in Ojibway, his tone indica- 
 tive of grave remonstrance sharpened a bit by 
 sternness. The white man had dropped to his knees, 
 and now, gasping, arose slowly, looking as if doubt- 
 ful whether to renew the combat. 
 
 81
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "If you've got any sense," said Winterton, ad- 
 dressing him, "go to your tent." 
 
 Just then Kiwetin, Marsh, and the other whites 
 arrived. 
 
 "What's the matter, Fuller?" asked Marsh, and 
 Kiwetin addressed his son in peremptory tones. 
 There was a hubbub of voices and languages, above 
 which presently Marsh was audible, cursing his 
 friend Fuller with great volubility and earnestness. 
 
 "Don't make no difference," he bawled, "you done 
 a fool thing, 'n' 'f I'd been in the Indian's place I'd 
 'a' pulled your throat out. Now you go back to your 
 tent, and don't show yourself again tonight. Git !" 
 
 Imperceptibly, almost, after the manner of strenu- 
 ous episodes, the confusion and excitement died 
 away. Two of the whites laid hold of Fuller and 
 hustled him to their camp. Strongheart went to the 
 wigwam where still stood the young woman, and 
 went in with her. Kiwetin and many other men 
 lingered, gabbling. Nelson caught Winterton by the 
 arm. 
 
 "Come, Steve," he said, "Dick will want to know 
 all about this, and so do J. Get a move on !" 
 
 "Wai," Winterton returned, in mild protest at be- 
 ing hurried now that there was no emergency to stir 
 him, "you seen it all ; much as I did, anyhow." 
 
 "Doesn't seem as if I'd seen anything but a red- 
 skin battering ram in full action. Gee ! what muscle, 
 what savage force that fellow has ! If Fuller hadn't 
 been a pretty good one himself, I believe he'd have 
 gone to sleep with the first blow." 
 
 82
 
 STRONG HEART 
 
 To Livingston's rather languid "What was the 
 row?" Nelson replied with a brief account of what 
 he had seen, minimizing in no respect his admira- 
 tion for Strongheart's fighting prowess. "What it 
 was all about I don't know," he concluded. "Tell 
 us, Steve." 
 
 "Fuller got gay with Gezhikway," said Winterton. 
 
 "That girl who stood by the wigwam looking on ?" 
 
 Winterton nodded. 
 
 "Is she Strongheart's sweetheart?" asked Living- 
 ston. 
 
 "His sister. She's a widow. Her husband got 
 killed in a log drive last Spring." 
 
 "And that fellow, Fuller, insulted her?" suggested 
 Nelson, his voice quivering with indignation. 
 
 Winterton nodded again. 
 
 "I believe Strongheart would have killed him if 
 Steve hadn't interfered," said Nelson. 
 
 "Then he'd have got what he deserved," said Liv- 
 ingston. 
 
 There was silence for a bit, the young men reflect- 
 ing on the episode while Winterton filled his pipe. 
 When that essential article was in working order, he 
 said, "That's one of the things that makes some of 
 the Indians down on Soangetaha." 
 
 "What !" exclaimed Nelson, hotly, "defending his 
 sister from insult?" 
 
 "No, not that," and the woodsman seemed sur- 
 prised that the young man had not followed his train 
 of thought. "You asked if Gezhikway was his 
 sweetheart. That's what I mean. He hasn't got 
 
 83
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 one, V aint likely to have. The Chief 'n' the old 
 men think he ought to take a squaw." 
 
 "I suppose Strongheart feels above his own peo- 
 ple," mused Nelson. "Doesn't he?" 
 
 "Dunno 'bout that. Ain't so sure 'bout that. Any- 
 how, that ain't the reason why he don't take a 
 squaw." 
 
 "Come, Steve, smoke up!" urged Livingston. 
 "Give us the whole story." 
 
 "Wai, you see, Soangetaha had what you might 
 call a romance. He was mighty fond of a girl, she 
 was Black Eagle's only daughter, as purty a little 
 thing as you ever seen, red or white. It was all un- 
 derstood atween 'em when Soangetaha went away to 
 school, 'n' ev'rybody in the tribe b'lieved she'd be his 
 wife when she was big enough. Then th' was a 
 white man come to the reservation from the Soo 
 on some business or other. He seen Shawanequay 
 that was her name, you know 'South-girl,' 'cause 
 she was born one time when Black Eagle 'n' his 
 family was visiting some Ojibway across the line. 
 'S I said, he seen her, 'n' liked her looks, 'n,' wal, 
 she run away with him. I ain't sayin' the hull blame 
 wasn't hisn, you understand. She was only a young 
 thing 'thouten any more idees than most other Ojib- 
 way girls, no schoolin', 'though I dunno as that 
 makes much difference. I p'sume mebbe you can 
 see how she might git misled 'thouten much blame 
 stickin' to her. 'Course he didn't marry her. Black 
 Eagle tried to git her to come back, but she wouldn't. 
 Said the man was her husband, which he wasn't, 
 
 84
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 though like enough he made her b'lieve so. Anyhow 
 her family had to give it up. 
 
 "Bimeby Soangetaha come home, schoolin' done, 
 V fer all I could see at the time, ready to settle down 
 'n' be an Indian like the rest, though he would wear 
 city clo'es, 'n' you couldn't expect to change some of 
 the manners he got in the East. Fust thing he 
 asked about was Shawanequay, 'n' when he hearn 
 what they had to tell him, he hiked it for the Soo. 
 I reckon 'twas just as well for that white skunk that 
 Soangetaha didn't find him. He'd left the Soo some 
 time before for parts unknown, 'n' of course he'd 
 left the girl behind. Seems he shook her just before 
 her baby was born. Tfre little un didn't live till her 
 mother got well, 'n' she had to go peggin' round, 
 supportin' herself with what work she could git when 
 she oughtta been to a hospital. For these O jib way 
 women ain't any tougher, that I can see, than any 
 other kind when they ain't took care of 'n' treated 
 right. Look at the deaths from consumption on the 
 reservation every year! 
 
 "Wai, Soangetaha found her coughin' her lungs 
 away, starvin', nigh crazy, I guess, with grief. He 
 took her home, Soangetaha did. She went with him 
 that far, but died within a week. Sence then he ain't 
 said more'n 'Bozho,' to any o' the girls of the mar- 
 ryin' age, 'n' sometimes I must say he seems onduly 
 sensitive 'f a white man looks sheeps-eyes at an In- 
 dian woman." 
 
 "Well, I should think he might be !" exclaimel 
 Nelson, when Winterton had puffed so long tha*' 
 
 85
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 it was clear he had finished. Livingston made no 
 comment, but his eyes were very bright as he lay on 
 the bed and looked up at the handful of stars peer- 
 ing clown at him through the wigwam vent-hole. 
 
 " 'N' some of the old men," added Winterton, 
 "think as how he'd oughtta git over it 'n' take a 
 squaw as a matter o' duty to the tribe, but Soange- 
 taha he don't seem to see it in that way." 
 
 Then the woodsman pulled himself to his feet with 
 abundant manifestations of difficulty, and lumbered 
 off in the darkness to his quarters.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CONSPIRATORS FOR JUSTICE 
 
 Next day the council re-assembled in front of 
 Chief Kiwetin's wigwam and dragged itself along, 
 hour after hour, without apparent progress. The 
 whites, as before, sat on the log, Fuller among them 
 with a preposterously swollen eye, and blue spots 
 on his throat. Strongheart, who had taken no part 
 in the proceedings of the previous day, now sat on 
 the ground behind his father, his eyes downcast, his 
 features set in an expression of sullen resentment. 
 The only thoroughly busy man in the gathering was 
 Pierre Larocque, the interpreter. Kiwetin had pro- 
 fessed himself satisfied with the definition of bound- 
 aries by latitude and longitude, and now sought light 
 on the joint-stock feature of the proposition. Along 
 in the afternoon it became fairly evident that, if the 
 Indians should accept the general proposition, there 
 would likely ensue a long delay while they satisfied 
 themselves as to the equitability of the proposed di- 
 vision of interests. Such sticklers for exactitude 
 were they, that they might argue the season out on 
 the question whether their share should properly be 
 one-third, or thirty-four per cent. The purpose of 
 Strongheart's presence was indicated by the fact 
 
 87
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 that now and then Kiwetin turned to him with a 
 question, the answer to which served to verify the 
 faithfulness of Pierre's interpretations. 
 
 Winterton and Nelson remained in the wigwam 
 for the better part of the forenoon, but the woods- 
 man tired of the debate at last, and wandered down 
 to the shore to commune with his pipe alone. Nelson 
 went restlessly in and out, and used up films reck- 
 lessly from sheer lack of anything better to do, and 
 Livingston fretted somewhat to see his chum so un- 
 satisfactorily occupied. About the middle of the 
 afternoon Nelson announced that he would try for 
 some pictures of the village from the lake, if he could 
 find Winterton to act as paddler. His departure from 
 the wigwam was observed by one of the whites who, 
 forgetting, if he knew, that an invalid was quartered 
 there, presently left the log and strolled around to 
 the side of the structure where he was invisible to 
 most of the Indians, all of whom at the moment 
 were listening with close attention to a long explana- 
 tion by Pierre. Biding his opportunity, the white 
 man jerked his head when he caught the eye of one 
 of his companions, and the latter shortly after- 
 ward arose and strolled idly around the wigwam. 
 These two halted for their conference close by 
 the spot where Livingston lay, and above the 
 eager drone of Pierre's long argument, for such 
 was the real nature of his interpretation, the 
 helpless guest heard what they had to say to 
 one another. 
 
 "See here," said one, "are these redskins as stupid 
 88
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 as they seem, or is there some devilish shrewdness 
 hidden underneath?" 
 
 "Getting tired of it?" asked the other, with a 
 chuckle. 
 
 " 'Tisn't that exactly. I can wait with the next 
 one, and 00 don't forget that Marsh told us we 
 mustn't try to push things, that the Indians are 
 bound to be slow, and all that, but to sit there and 
 hear that infernal gibberish dribbling along by the 
 hour damn ! it gets on my nerves. Do you think 
 that cuss, Pierre, is playing the game straight?" 
 
 "Oh, sure! Marsh knows enough Ojibway to keep 
 tabs on him, and besides, ain't he in on it?" 
 
 "Yes, but I didn't know but tribal loyalty or some- 
 thing of that sort might induce him to tip them off 
 on the quiet, when this formal pow-wow isn't in ses- 
 sion, you know." 
 
 "Guess we can trust Pierre's greed for that." 
 
 "Mebbe. I s'pose it's likely we can, but I feel 
 damnably doubtful. That fool break of Fuller's**" 
 
 "Don't worry about that. I don't believe the red- 
 skins will lay it up against a white man that he 
 thinks well of one of their women. It flatters the 
 race, don't you see? Anyhow, Marsh is sure he's 
 smoothed that over. No redskin could have cussed 
 Fuller any more fervently than he did. You've got 
 to be patient, Hayden. The stake is a big one and 
 worth all the time the game takes. And I don't 
 think we ought to talk about it here. Marsh says 
 Indians are observing cusses, and suspicious. We'd 
 better get back to the pow-wow." 
 
 89
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "All right, but I shall be nervous till we get their 
 marks to the contract. Damn! if they should tumble 
 to that latitude business " 
 
 "They won't. They've approved that part of the 
 deal already. Come on, and look benignant." 
 
 Livingston was thrown into a perfect fever of ex- 
 citement by this dialogue. Until this moment he 
 had been disturbed by no special distrust of his 
 enterprising fellow-countrymen, for Marsh, the only 
 one he had heard speak, was engagingly frank, and 
 his former relations with the Indians had apparently 
 been of a kind to establish a reputation for fair deal- 
 ing. As for the others, lying within the wigwam as 
 he did, he had caught no more than glimpses of their 
 faces as they passed the door, and there was nothing 
 in such casual observation to arouse suspicion. The 
 details of the proposition, the definition of bound- 
 aries by latitude and longitude, the joint-stock ar- 
 rangement, and clauses in the charter investing in 
 the company the mineral rights of the land in 
 question, had appealed to him merely as matters of 
 curious interest, and he had observed the slow prog- 
 ress of the negotiation with the feeling that he was 
 learning something of the methods of doing business 
 in a strange land and with strange people. Now it 
 was suddenly clear that the business methods of the 
 strangers should be defined as chicanery, and he 
 burned with resentment against them, and fear lest 
 the Indians be victimized. His eager interest in 
 Strongheart became secondary to desire to save his 
 new found friends from the consequences of fraud. 
 
 90
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 What could he do? It might be easy to expose 
 the whites by telling what he had heard, and this 
 procedure would have the inestimable advantage 
 of enabling him to free his mind in vigorous denun- 
 ciation of a pack of swindlers. Brave, generous 
 youth longed to rush in, after the manner of knights 
 of old, and right the wrong on the spot ; but discre- 
 tion counseled otherwise, for sharpers such as these 
 might not readily be confounded by a report of a 
 fragmentary conversation. It would never do, 
 thought Livingston, to underestimate the strength 
 of the enemy, which was to say, in this instance, the 
 enemy's craft. Better, if possible, to take some pro- 
 cedure that would convict them of intended fraud 
 beyond the possibility of denial; make the enemy 
 supply a perfectly obvious proof of duplicity; but 
 how? And meantime, there was the danger that 
 Kiwetin might be persuaded to sign the papers. 
 
 The prime result of Livingston's first cogitations 
 was a firm conviction that he must play the game 
 in Marsh's way : oppose craft to craft, subvert treach- 
 ery by secret operations, and that meant that noth- 
 ing must be done that might put the rascals on their 
 guard. His blood ran cold as he saw Kiwetin re- 
 ceive a packet of papers in his hand and look gravely 
 at them, as if he could read them. What if he should 
 sign the contract then and there? If it should really 
 come to that, Livingston decided that he would cry 
 out his denunciation, and trust to his own belief in 
 the rascality of the whites to persuade the Indians of 
 it; and, pending the necessity for aggressive action, 
 
 91
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 he risked trying to attract Strongheart's attention. 
 
 He snapped his fingers lightly, and waved his 
 hand up and down. Strongheart sat in full view, but 
 his attention at that moment was absorbed with 
 what the .Chief was saying to him, and presently 
 the documents passed from Kiwetin to his son. For 
 quite a minute Strongheart bent his head over the 
 papers, and then he began to speak in his native 
 tongue, manifestly translating the documents. Other 
 than the droning of his voice, there was perfect 
 silence outside, only the occasional, distant cries of 
 children at play breaking the monotony. Living- 
 ston felt momentary relief, for the crisis was post- 
 poned at least until the translation should have been 
 finished, but his anxiety returned when he consid- 
 ered what might happen immediately afterward. If 
 Strongheart's translation coincided substantially 
 with the interpretation given by Pierre, would not 
 Kiwetin, and the sub-chiefs, and the rest, sign the 
 contract ? 
 
 Livingston never had known keen agony of suspense 
 such as he experienced for an hour or more during 
 which Strongheart droned over the document, his 
 tone varied occasionally as he raised his head to ex- 
 plain some difficult passage. At last, with a great 
 throb of joy, Livingston saw Nelson, camera in hand, 
 swing around the outer circle of the council. He 
 paused for an exasperating moment when he was be- 
 hind Strongheart, looking down as if to see what the 
 Indian was reading, and then entered the wigwam. 
 "Got some bully pict " he began, and stopped ab- 
 
 92
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ruptly, puzzled and not a little startled by his chum's 
 dramatic gesture of warning. Livingston, with one 
 hand to his lips, shook his head energetically, and 
 beckoned with his other hand. Nelson drew near on 
 tip-toe, frowning in perplexity. 
 
 "Don't say a word, Frank," whispered the invalid. 
 "A couple of those white rascals forgot that I was 
 here, and I heard them saying things behind the 
 wigwam. The Chief mustn't sign their papers. He 
 must turn them down, understand? They've just 
 seen you come in, so it will be all right if you go 
 to the door and ask Strongheart to come in as if you 
 wanted him to help you at something. I must see 
 him as soon as possible. Take the first chance, old 
 fellow." 
 
 It was almost too much for the quick-witted Nel- 
 son to grasp at once. He stood for a moment, star- 
 ing at his chum, then nodded comprehendingly, set 
 his camera down, wheeled about and looked toward 
 the council. Strongheart had finished his transla- 
 tion. He held the documents toward his father, 
 speaking earnestly meantime. 
 
 "Ye gods !" whispered Livingston, "he mustn't be 
 allowed to sign that now!" 
 
 As Kiwetin took the papers, Nelson stepped to 
 the door. "Strongheart," said he, "can you lend me 
 a hand a minute?" 
 
 Strongheart arose and came into the wigwam. 
 
 "The Chief mustn't sign that paper, Strongheart," 
 said Livingston. "Stop him if you can. Make him 
 wait till tomorrow. It won't do at all !" 
 
 93
 
 STRO N GHEART 
 
 "Is there something- wrong with it?" Strongheart 
 asked, with a quick glance toward the door. 
 
 "Yes, everything's wrong. I must tell you and 
 tke Chief all about it, but I don't want those other 
 fellows to hear, or know that I'm on to the game." 
 
 The Indian's brow darkened. "I've just told my 
 father," said he, "that Pierre's interpretation was 
 correct. "Oh !" and he clenched his fists and shud- 
 dered, evidently suppressing a passionate outburst, 
 "it seemed so attractive ! Such an opportunity for 
 my people to habituate themselves to the ways of 
 civilization ! To be engaged in an industry, to hold 
 diares of stock, to comprehend business manage- 
 ment, to feel the force of initiative in which we are 
 so sadly lacking ! To learn a useful lesson in all these 
 things ! What advancement might it not lead to ? I 
 thought. And now, if it must be given up, especially 
 if it must be abandoned because it is wrong, my 
 people will cling the more stubbornly to their un- 
 progressive ways. They will glory the more in their 
 stagnation. God in Heaven ! what is there for us if 
 we cannot undertake a simple co-operative scheme 
 like this?" 
 
 Strongheart spoke in tones hardly above a whis- 
 per. The sharpest ear could not have distinguished 
 his words outside the dwelling, but the tumult of 
 tragic sorrow within him lent his utterance such 
 force that both Nelson and Livingston were deeply 
 stirred. To them the brief oration was as effective 
 as if it had been delivered with full voice and free 
 gesture in a legislative chamber. Livingston was 
 
 94
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 not only stirred emotionally, but his judgment suf- 
 fered a momentary shock. Was it wise for him to 
 intrude his ideas in this affair, which was more than 
 a commercial transaction inasmuch as it compre- 
 hended the relations of two races? His own right- 
 eous indignation against chicanery seemed so puny 
 compared with the Indian's intense rebellion against 
 the fate of his people. And yet, so the young man's 
 conscience cried, no progress could be made on the 
 basis of injustice ; no good could come of ignoring, 
 and therefore sustaining cheat. 
 
 "But, Strongheart," he whispered anxiously, "you 
 wouldn't want your people to be defrauded, would 
 you?" 
 
 "No ! a thousand times, no !" 
 
 "And if it could be shown that it isn't the co-op- 
 erative scheme that is at fault, but the men behind 
 it? that the principle is all right, and that it needs 
 only honest men to work it out?" 
 
 "Will you lay down a principle by which we may 
 measure the integrity of men?" asked Strongheart, 
 bitterly. 
 
 "I can't," replied Livingston, with profound humil- 
 iation as he recognized the subtle indictment against 
 his own race. 
 
 "Well," said Strongheart, with another glance 
 toward the door, "you have aroused my suspicions 
 of Marsh's proposition with a mere breath. You 
 see how quickly we distrust. Is there some- 
 thing hidden in those documents that I couldn't 
 see?" 
 
 95
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "A great deal, I fear. Is there any danger that 
 the Chief will sign tonight?" 
 
 "It wouldn't be like him, but I'll watch. Thank 
 you, Livingston. I'll tell my father you want to see 
 him." 
 
 "Yes, do ! As soon as he can get rid of the crowd." 
 
 Strongheart reflected a moment. "Come out with 
 me, Nelson," he said presently, "and sit down as if 
 you were interested in what is going on. Do you 
 know where Winterton is?" 
 
 "I left him hauling in the canoe." 
 
 "All right. After you've sat a few minutes, go and 
 get him and bring him here. You'd like him here, 
 wouldn't you, Livingston?" 
 
 "Oh, decidedly!" 
 
 Outside they heard Marsh's voice. "You see, it's all 
 on the square, Chief. It's a give-and-take deal, the 
 best chance ever given the Indians to make money, a 
 whole lot of it, without risk. We take all the risk, 
 you see, and as we put up a lot of money to carry on 
 the work clean through a Winter before any money 
 can come back, why, 'cording to our way o' thinking, 
 we'd ought to have the biggest share of the profit. 
 That's fair, ain't it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, it seems fair," said Kiwetin. 
 
 Nelson and Strongheart sat on the ground behind 
 him. Pierre burst into long speech, the tones of his 
 voice proclaiming that he was making a plea. 
 
 "Big talk today," said Black Eagle, when there 
 came a pause in Pierre's discourse. He addressed 
 Marsh, who responded with vast good humor, "Right 
 
 96
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 you are, Black Eagle, it's been a heap big talk. It took 
 us a heap big thinking to get up the plan, and we 
 allow that you've got to have all the time you want to 
 think over your side of it. We don't want to hurry 
 you. Pierre, here, seems to think we're in a dead 
 sweat to close the bargain and clear out, but we ain't. 
 This is a good place to stay, and if you people like, 
 we can tramp together over the land for a few days, 
 and you can see pretty much with your own eyes what 
 we want. Tell 'em all that, will you, Soangetaha?" 
 
 Pierre scowled discontentedly at being thus super- 
 seded, but he held his peace, and Strongheart put 
 Marsh's speech into Ojibway. The whites nodded 
 acquiescence, and, as the council broke up for the day, 
 professed themselves perfectly satisfied with the prog- 
 ress attained, though it is to be doubted whether any 
 but Marsh spoke the truth, and in his case there may 
 have been a drawing of the long bow for policy's 
 sake. 
 
 Nelson lost no time in finding Winterton, and, when 
 they entered the wigwam, the Chief and Strongheart 
 were awaiting them. Livingston repeated the con- 
 versation he had overheard. He made no comment 
 upon it, but scanned the faces of his listeners eagerly 
 to learn its effect on them. Winterton's jaw dropped 
 in speechless astonishment, and he stared at Livingston 
 as if he doubted whether he had heard correctly. 
 Strongheart's features were immovable. The venera- 
 ble Chief looked vacantly into space, and his lips quiv- 
 ered with a fluttering sigh. His voice was husky when 
 he spoke. 
 
 9?
 
 STRONGHEAR1 
 
 "I no would think it of Tom Marsh," he said. 
 
 "Nor I!" exclaimed Winterton, explosively, and he 
 struck his knee by way of emphasis; "and what's 
 more, I don't." 
 
 "Then what do you make of what they said ?" asked 
 Livingston. 
 
 "Tom Marsh never done a crooked deal in his life," 
 was Winterton's stubborn evasion of the question. 
 
 "That don't change the facts in this case, Steve. 
 Many a man who's been upright all his life, so far 
 as anybody knew, has gone wrong in the end." 
 
 "Tain't Tom Marsh's way." 
 
 "But how do you account for it? For instance, one 
 of them is afraid Pierre will tip the Indians off, and 
 the other says Pierre won't because he's in on the 
 deal." 
 
 "Don't prove nothing. Pierre would rather take a 
 chance of a commission any day than have reg'lar 
 wages." 
 
 "Well, Steve," and Livingston's tone became ag- 
 gressive, "you're not going to sit there and say that 
 conversation doesn't suggest crooked work ? You can't 
 account for it on any honest basis." 
 
 Winterton's silence was confession that he was 
 staggered. The Chief spoke again. 
 
 "It is so," said he. "There is something wrong. 
 I wish we knew more about it." 
 
 "That's just what I want, too," said Livingston. "If 
 Steve wasn't so stubborn in defending Marsh I think 
 we might do something to convict the rascals." 
 
 "Mr. Livingston," said Winterton, gravely, "if it's 
 98
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 a question of provin' anything, you can count on me 
 to do whatever you want. I 'low the thing does look 
 bad, but it's hard fer me to go back on my 'pinion o' a 
 feller like Tom Marsh. 'F you've got any way to 
 prove things, I'm with ye, fer I've got to b'lieve 'twill 
 show that Tom Marsh is square, V 'f that happens, 
 the Indians can go on with the deal." 
 
 "That's the talk ! Investigation won't hurt the inno- 
 cent. Now, listen, Steve. I haven't had anything to 
 do but think of this, you know, and after I got my 
 suspicions aroused, I began to consider the crooked 
 possibilities in the joint-stock scheme. I'm not a busi- 
 ness man, but I've read the newspapers for some years, 
 and I remember cases where the majority holders of 
 a stock company have reorganized the concern and 
 frozen out the minority, which in this case would be 
 the Indians. That's what these grafters will do, you 
 mark my word, if we give them the chance. They 
 offer the Indians a one-third interest, and you'll find, 
 if the Chief sticks for it, that they'll concede a bigger 
 share. They start at one-third so that they can grace- 
 fully come up, as a pretence to satisfying the Indians. 
 They'll willingly give the Indians forty-nine shares in 
 the hundred, for, with their fifty-one they can re- 
 organize any time, sell out to another company, you 
 know, in which they hold all the stock. There are 
 any number of ways by which they can hog the whole 
 thing and let the Indians whistle for their profits." 
 
 "How be ye goin' to prove all that?" demanded 
 Winterton, sharply. 
 
 "I can't, unless the Indians sign the contract and 
 99
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 the company gets to work, and I admit I may be 
 wrong, but if we can prove that Marsh's crowd is 
 crooked in one particular, won't it go far to proving 
 that they mean to be crooked in the rest of it?" 
 
 "Falsus in uno, in omnibus falsus," said Nelson. 
 
 "What's that ?" asked Kiwetin, quickly. 
 
 Strongheart translated for him. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, "that is the Ojibway way. 
 If Tom Marsh crooked one way, he crooked in others. 
 What can you prove, Livingston?" 
 
 Livingston breathed a sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure 
 you'd all see it that way," said he. "Now I can get 
 down to business. This latitude and longitude how 
 have they managed it? Reckonings by latitude and 
 longitude are made by means of a sextant. Have they 
 brought one a thousand miles into the interior from 
 the seaboard just to work this scheme? You've seen 
 the papers, Strongheart. Do they give the boundaries 
 in terms of latitude and longitude ?" 
 
 "Yes. The northern boundary, for example, is so 
 many degrees, minutes, and seconds latitude, from a 
 point so many degrees, minutes, and seconds longitude, 
 to another point in longitude; and the other lines are 
 stated in a similar way." 
 
 "Then if we can get hold of a sextant, and an ancient 
 mariner to play on the thing, we can verify their reck- 
 onings. That will take time if we have to send to 
 New York, or Montreal, for the thing." 
 
 "It will cost much money," said the Qiief. 
 
 "As to that," Livingston responded, "if you don't 
 mind, I should enjoy paying the cost. This accident 
 
 100
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of mine has knocked my plans sky-high, and I'll get 
 just as much fun in back-capping these swindlers as 
 I would have got from traveling. The point is, can 
 the gang be kept here while we are sending for the 
 instrument?" 
 
 "They go when they like," the Chief answered, "but if 
 they wait till I sign, they stay here as long as you need." 
 
 "The' won't be no need to send to New York," said 
 Winterton. 
 
 "How's that, Steve?" 
 
 "Why, the's plenty o' cap'ns on the lakes who've 
 got sextons. They're not all freshwater sailors, you 
 know. I know one who's sailed a ship as fur as Chiny. 
 He's got his instruments he used when he was on the 
 ocean. An' the's others. I know two or three right 
 at the Soo " 
 
 "Could you get one of them up here with his sex- 
 tant?" 
 
 "Reckon 'twouldn't be very hard 'f he's to home." 
 
 "You must try for it. How long will it take?" 
 
 "Wai, Dossegay 'n' me could git there V back in 
 five days 'f we was pushed. Allowin' we have to 
 hunt f er the man some, I reckon we could be back here 
 in six." 
 
 "Chief, can you hang on to these men as long as 
 that? You see, I want to convict 'em right to their 
 faces. Give 'em a surprise party, you know." 
 
 "I think we make them stay a week," replied Kiwe- 
 tin. "We take a journey with them, as Marsh said, 
 and look at land with our own eyes, though we know 
 it well enough. That take some time, and I can say 
 
 101
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 we like plan. I don't believe they go if they think 
 there's chance we sign." 
 
 "You've got to make 'em stay," said Winterton, "or 
 I won't go to the Soo for the sailor and his sexton. 
 Tom Marsh is all right, 'n' I won't have him cut outen 
 this deal by suspicion while I'm gone." 
 
 "We understand," said the Chief. "Nothing is 
 proved. Until it is, we friendly to Marsh and his 
 friends." 
 
 "I'm satisfied," and Winterton pocketed his pipe by 
 way of clinching his decision. 
 
 "All right," said Livingston. "Get a move on for 
 the Soo, Steve, as soon as you can, and let it be under- 
 stood that you're going to get something for the sick 
 man. That'll throw them off their guard. There's 
 only one thing I don't just see yet. How are we to 
 verify their lines without letting them know what 
 we're up to ?" 
 
 There was silence in the wigwam until Strongheart 
 and his father exchanged brief words. Strongheart 
 said, "Neen gigitoian nuhf" and the Chief answered, 
 "Gayget, gigitokan." If Livingston had understood 
 the words, he would have had further light on the 
 conflict to which Strongheart was subject, would have 
 apprehended, perhaps, one of the obstacles that lie 
 between the Indian and civilization; for Strongheart. 
 the educated man of twenty-four, said to his father, 
 "May I speak?" and the father replied, "Yes, speak." 
 
 "That will be easy," said Strongheart. "Marsh and 
 his friends will not hesitate to let me examine the 
 papers. I have had them this afternoon, you know. 
 
 102
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 If I should ask for them again, they'll surely give 
 them to me, for, if they refused, every man in the tribe 
 would be suspicious of them. I'll copy the descriptions 
 of the boundaries, with all the figures " 
 
 "That settles it !" cried Livingston. "Bring on your 
 ancient mariner, Steve, and a surveyor, too, and get 
 a government map of this region, if there is one. If we 
 don't find that there's a nigger in the woodpile, I'll get 
 on my knees in apology to Marsh and his whole crew. 
 The only thing left is to keep quiet. I want the fun of 
 seeing those fellows when the exposure is made." 
 
 "I'll bet my rifle against an old moccasin that Tom 
 Marsh comes out all right," grumbled Winterton, "but 
 I'll get Dossegay, and we'll hike for the Soo without 
 waitin' for supper." 
 
 "Oh, Steve," said Livingston, suddenly, "look in 
 again before you go. I've got a letter I want you to 
 mail for me." 
 
 "Did you write to Dorothy, Dick?" asked Nelson. 
 
 "Certainly. You asked me to, didn't you?" 
 
 "Well, you spoke of having a letter, as if you'd writ- 
 ten only one " 
 
 "Frank, your niceties of language belong in the 
 classroom. They're out of place in the wilderness." 
 
 "All right, Dick. Have your own way, but I'll bet 
 the O jib ways have a plural form for their nouns, and 
 that they use it when they mean it. How's that, 
 Strongheart ?" 
 
 "We have plural forms," replied the Indian, and the 
 conversation turned upon the structure of the O jib way 
 language. 
 
 103
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CHIEF KIWETIN, THE DEBATER 
 
 Winterton and Dossegay were off long before dark, 
 and Marsh himself bade them farewell at the shore. 
 
 "We been so took up with our business," said Marsh, 
 "which falls mostly on me, as the other men don't 
 know nothing 'bout Indians, that I'd clean overlooked 
 your having a sick man here. I'll keep an eye on him, 
 Steve, while you're gone." 
 
 "Reckon he won't need much lookin' after," was 
 Winterton's embarrassed reply, "but you might look 
 in on him 'n' git acquainted." 
 
 Marsh did so that very evening, and his unaffected 
 good humor impressed Livingston deeply. Indeed, the 
 man seemed another Steve Winterton, only more alert, 
 quicker in his movements, more flexible mentally, so to 
 speak. 
 
 "I don't wonder Steve feels sore," thought Living- 
 ston, with a pang of regret, "but it's a crooked deal, 
 and Marsh is in it. He's got to be exposed with the 
 rest." 
 
 The next day was memorable for Livingston on 
 two accounts: an excursion on the lake, and a talk 
 with Chief Kiwetin. The village was almost deserted 
 in the forenoon. A party of Ojibways, headed by 
 
 104
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Black Eagle, accompanied Marsh and his friends on 
 an exploring expedition that was planned to cover at 
 least four days. Yielding to his chum's urgent appeal, 
 Nelson joined this party. Nearly all the rest of the 
 population went, some to the hillsides, some to the 
 islands in the lake, for blueberries, which were then 
 in season and in marvelous abundance. Strongheart 
 and Mukwa had put a large canoe in thorough order, 
 and arranged a couch with blankets amidships for the 
 invalid, so that he could recline in a comfortable atti- 
 tude and even handle a trolling line without danger of 
 again straining his ankles, which were yet far from 
 well. Mukwa laid aside his pipe long enough to help 
 carry Livingston to the craft, and then, smoking in- 
 cessantly, wielded the forward paddle untiringly for 
 hours, while Strongheart, in the stern, guided the 
 canoe in and out of charming bays, and around the 
 beautiful islets with which the lake was dotted. Now 
 and again he advised Livingston to drop his line over, 
 and the passenger was speedily rewarded with the 
 thrill of a tugging pike. The Indian seldom failed to 
 know just where the fish lurked, and when one was 
 brought aboard, he would say, "There are generally 
 two in that hole," and the canoe would be put about 
 to gather in the other. It was not the finest fishing 
 from the strictly sporting viewpoint, for an eight- 
 pound pike surrenders with much less spirit than a 
 two-pound bass, and, unless the fisherman be as fresh 
 as the lake itself, a pike once attached to the end of a 
 troll is as good as caught ; but to the active young man 
 who had been lying in the wigwam for nearly three 
 
 105
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 days, it seemed the most glorious sport he had ever 
 known; and he returned at midday, hungry, happy, 
 and with fish enough to feed half the village. 
 
 Shortly after Joe had carried away the wreck of 
 his dinner, Livingston saw the Chief passing, and 
 called to him. Kiwetin stopped, looked in and said 
 pleasantly, "They left you alone, eh ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Livingston, "and I'm glad of it, now 
 you've come, for I'd like to talk with you a few min- 
 utes, if you can spare the time." 
 
 Kiwetin immediately entered and sat down, looking 
 benignantly receptive, a much more promising subject 
 than his son had been on the occasion when Livingston 
 first attempted to sound the depths of Indian character. 
 
 "I want to talk to you about your son, Soangetaha," 
 Livingston began. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, encouragingly. 
 
 "He's a splendid fellow. I like him immensely. He 
 seems to me one of the ablest men I ever met you 
 know what I mean, that he has the capacity to do 
 things ; it's in him, don't you see, to be a leader, a man 
 of influence and power?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin. 
 
 "He saved my life the other day, and you must know 
 how I feel about that, but even if I had no reason to 
 be grateful, I should see in Strongheart Soangetaha 
 the making of an exceptional man, and I should 
 want to do what I could to push him forward." 
 
 "Yes, yes," and Kiwetin's grave eyes lighted with 
 appreciation or patience, Livingston could hardly say 
 which. 
 
 106
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Livingston also was patient. He was tremendously 
 nerved up for this interview. The very fact that he 
 had to lie still contributed, doubtless, to his capacity 
 for concentration on the subject, and he was proceed- 
 ing, according to his best lights, in a thoroughly 
 diplomatic way, content to make allowances for the 
 Indian's slow mental action, and to arrive at the crucial 
 point by moderate stages. Kiwetin's noncommittal 
 affirmations were not exactly stimulative to confidence, 
 but Livingston was nothing if not determined. 
 
 "Strongheart has been to school," said he, a state- 
 ment so elementary that Kiwetin did not feel it in- 
 cumbent on him to acquiesce in it by so much as a 
 nod. "He has learned some things that the Indians 
 couldn't teach him, things that are of no use to him 
 here, but which are not only useful but necessary to 
 the life of the whites. You won't be offended if I use 
 the word civilization, will you?" 
 
 "Word not new to me," Kiwetin answered. "As I 
 understand it, civilization is life of white people. In- 
 dians' life is something else. Savagery, your people 
 call it." 
 
 "I do not, now that I've seen it," Livingston hastily 
 interposed. 
 
 "It no matter," said Kiwetin, tranquilly ; "there have 
 to be words for things in all languages. Savagery, 
 civilization; Indian life, white-man life. We under- 
 stand each other. Well ?" 
 
 "Well," echoed Livingston, a bit disconcerted, "two 
 different things, two ways of living. Now, some men 
 are fitted for one, and some for the other. Isn't it so ?" 
 
 107
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Indian fit for Indian way," Kiwetin replied. 
 
 "Yes, when he stays in it, but when he has gone 
 outside of it, and seen the other way, and learned to 
 live it, he can't be his best, or do his best in the Indian 
 way. He must have all the advantages of civilization 
 to bring out the best that is in him. Civilization makes 
 a bigger man of the Indian who goes to it. When 
 he comes back here, there are many things he could do 
 if conditions were different. If you don't mind my 
 saying so, he is like your own wigwam, too big for its 
 purpose." 
 
 "There are times when my wigwam is full of 
 guests," said Kiwetin, "but I understand. Only tell 
 me this : can Indian who has gone to civilization make 
 any use there of what he learned in savagery ?" 
 
 "I think not," was Livingston's frank and perhaps 
 too prompt reply. 
 
 "Very well, then, these things balance. Two ways 
 of living. One kind of men for one way, another for 
 other. Indian who goes out of Indian life to civiliza- 
 tion is no longer an Indian." 
 
 "I see what you mean, and that is really my own 
 view. Your son, Soangetaha, now, has been, we'll 
 say, civilized. He comes back here and his new pow- 
 ers are wasted." 
 
 "That his misfortune," said Kiwetin, as tranquilly 
 as before. "Indian can take nothing to white man, 
 white man can bring nothing to Indian." 
 
 "Oh, I say, Chief! you must modify that. Why! 
 the white man brought you the rifle, which you have 
 taken up in place of your bow and arrow ; he brought 
 
 108
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 you steel axes, which are better than your stone toma- 
 hawks; he brought you cloths, and you no longer 
 dress in skins; he has brought you kitchen utensils, 
 and I see your women using them ; he has shown you 
 that houses are better, the year round, than wigwams ; 
 he has brought you plows, and shown you how to 
 make the land feed you better; he has brought you 
 many comforts which your fathers never dreamed of." 
 
 "And he brought us firewater," said Kiwetin. 
 
 Livingston felt the hot blood rush to his face. "Yes, 
 he did," he confessed, feeling his whole argument shat- 
 tered by a single blow. 
 
 "It is true," Kiwetin went on, "that we have given 
 up bow and arrow for rifle, and stone axe for that of 
 steel, but are we any better for it? or happier? or 
 stronger? I no think so, Livingston. Our fathers 
 dressed in skins and lived to greater age than we do 
 today. Did we no lose something when we cast off 
 our fringed garments, our feathered headgear, all those 
 decorations which seemed to make us more fitted to 
 forest? We took step toward civilization when we 
 put on cloth shirts and plain trousers, but do we do 
 our work any better, or do we feel better, or look bet- 
 ter? But such things, mebbe, not important. Houses 
 are. House of white man is not as good, year round, 
 as wigwam. I know, for I have tried both, and I see 
 more sickness in houses on reservation than there used 
 to be when I was child and we all lived in wigwams 
 which we set up where it was convenient in forest. 
 With rifle a man can kill more deer and moose than 
 with bow and arrow, but we used to kill all we needed 
 
 109
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 with old-time weapons. Why should one kill more 
 than he needs ? We must use rifle now, because white 
 man has come into forest and shot off game. He de- 
 spises our skin garments, but he pays Indians to kill 
 animals so that his own women may dress in skins. 
 We have to use white man's tools, because he has made 
 life harder for us. He hasn't made it any better. Do 
 you hear those sounds ?" 
 
 The aged Chief interrupted his argument abruptly, 
 and Livingston heard the chatter and laughter of 
 children at play by the shore. 
 
 "Tell me," Kiwetin resumed, "when children of civ- 
 ilization play, are their voices any fresher than those? 
 Is their laughter any pleasanter? Are they happier, 
 or better ? I been in some of your cities, and I no like 
 them. You come to forest for your pleasure; I no 
 go to your cities for it, for they make me sad. Sup- 
 pose you had power over these children: would you 
 take them from this playground to the streets of your 
 cities?" 
 
 "No," answered Livingston, with something like a 
 groan, as the Chief paused, "let them stay Indian, if 
 you will, but let us get back, you and me, to the 
 ground we stood on a few minutes ago. We are 
 considering the case of a man who has been to civiliza- 
 tion and learned its ways. Where can he be most use- 
 ful? Not here, Chief. Here, what he learned there 
 will be in his way and make him unhappy. For the 
 sake of the man who has learned something of the 
 other life, he should be allowed to go back to it. Then 
 only can he become all that Nature meant him to be. 
 
 110
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Here his newly acquired powers are stunted. Don't 
 you see?" 
 
 "You speak of my son, Livingston. Let us be plain. 
 No Indian should want to leave his own life. Here are 
 his people, here he was born. These are conditions 
 best fit for him. Here he should become the best that 
 Nature meant him to be. I no have liking for Indian 
 who would desert his people. They need him. I mean 
 my son, Soangetaha. You have said that he is able. 
 I believe it. He is fitted to lead. You speak truth. 
 One day I shall go to my fathers; then Soangetaha 
 must lead in my place. His people need him, they have 
 a right to his services." 
 
 "Chief," said Livingston, "you have the best of me 
 in most of the argument; that is, I can't answer you, 
 though I feel that if I were as old as you I could do so. 
 But I'm not beaten on the main issue. You have said 
 you use the rifle, and the white man's tools, and so 
 forth, because you have to, the white man having made 
 your life harder. Now see what that leads you to. You 
 have only begun, you Indians, to feel the influence of 
 the white man's advance. Year after year his ways 
 will creep on you, and your life, your own Indian life, 
 will become harder and harder. Let us admit that you 
 won't be any the better for it; let us admit that the 
 old, simple, Indian way was better; let us admit all 
 the evils the white man brings, firewater and the rest. 
 The point is that they are here, and more are coming, 
 and you can't stop them. Call it unfortunate, pitiable, 
 tragic, if you will, and I'll say amen! but the facts 
 can't be dodged, and you've got to face these facts and 
 
 111
 
 adjust yourselves to them. How does this apply to 
 Soangetaha? He's had half an education. Give him 
 more ! Complete his civilization, so that he can return 
 and be a really useful leader of his people. He can 
 bring back ideas of progress and the ways to attain it. 
 Send him back to school so that he can learn enough 
 to bring the school to you. For you've got to have it. 
 Those children playing out there can't live the old In- 
 dian life ! They've got to lead the life which pioneers 
 like Tom Marsh are bringing in here. Only a man 
 who understands that life can teach them how to live 
 it. Soangetaha has had too much education for the 
 old, vanishing Indian life, not enough for the new 
 life that the Indians must learn to lead if they are to 
 live at all. You must admit that the whites are con- 
 quering the country. You see it, you've almost said 
 so. They will sweep all over it in time, and the In- 
 dians must adjust themselves to the new, harder, uglier 
 conditions. It's no discredit to you, you understand, 
 but the fact is the whites have got advantages that 
 make them stronger than the Indians. You must meet 
 them in their way, Chief, or give way before them." 
 
 Livingston wound up his speech with an exclama- 
 tion of pain; for, his earnestness mounting to excite- 
 ment, he had wriggled to a sitting posture, leaning 
 on one arm and gesturing freely with the other ; and, 
 just as he came to his climax, forgetful of his condi- 
 tion, he moved his lower limbs with such violence that 
 the sprained ankles twinged in excruciating agony. 
 His cheeks paled, and he all but fell from the low bed. 
 Kiwetin fairly leaped across the wigwam, lifted the 
 
 112
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 young man and gently laid him back where he be- 
 longed. 
 
 "Thanks, Chief," he said, mentally cursing himself 
 for forgetting and so nullifying, as he feared, the force 
 of his argument. "It's all right now. When a fellow 
 thinks his feet are dropping off he has to holler, you 
 know. I suppose an Indian wouldn't have yipped." 
 
 "Indian shuts his mouth to pain when it is inflicted 
 by enemy," Kiwetin responded. "I've heard Indians 
 groan when their stomachs ached. Sure it's all right 
 now ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Don't mind me. I'll lie still hereafter." 
 
 Kiwetin stood for a moment looking silently down 
 at his guest. Then, "Livingston," said he, "I like you. 
 You talk well. I believe your heart is honest. But 
 you are young. You have pride of your race, and 
 that is right. It would not be right if you did not 
 think white men best of all people; but we, we red 
 men, we have our pride of race, and we no admit that 
 white man is better, or stronger, than we are. There 
 are more of them, it is true, and they crowd us, but 
 we should be weak indeed, we should be unworthy of 
 our fathers if we let them take from us all what makes 
 our life wholesome and natural. As long as we no 
 can admit that civilization is better than savagery, as 
 long as we deny that civilization make people better, 
 or happier, we would wrong our race if we no resisted 
 civilization in every possible way. War is no longer 
 possible. The whites have a better understanding of 
 war than we have, and they are more relentless. We 
 must resist whites, and their civilization, in other ways. 
 
 113
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 I used to be much in doubt, for I was anxious for my 
 people, and I had some thoughts same like you have 
 spoken. I was persuaded to let Soangetaha go to 
 school. Result been bitter disappointment, and now 
 he and tribe must make best of it. But I like you, 
 Livingston, and I have liked to hear you talk. We 
 are friends, I think?" and the venerable Chief held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "I am proud to think you are my friend," said Liv- 
 ingston, solemnly, for he was deeply impressed. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, "good-bye," and with a 
 cordial grip of the young man's hand, he took his 
 departure. 
 
 114
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 STRONGHEART'S ULTIMATUM 
 
 "Well, Strongheart, the Chief and I have been dis- 
 cussing the education problem," said Livingston. 
 
 A flash of interest crossed the Indian's face and left 
 it impassive. "You did not agree," he said. 
 
 "No, and yes. As I look back on the argument, we 
 started pretty far apart, and when we stopped we were 
 pretty much on the same ground, and that ground was 
 his. Why! Strongheart, old chap, your father is a 
 perfect giant at debate !" 
 
 "Could he be a good chief if he were not?" 
 
 "I suppose not. By jimminy! he deserves his title. 
 He's a man of influence, all right, all right." 
 
 "Then he convinced you that I shouldn't go to the 
 East for further education." 
 
 "Not by a long shot, he didn't ! He had me twisted 
 and standing on my head as far as the problem con- 
 cerned Indians generally, but he didn't convince me 
 that you don't belong in civilization." 
 
 "And you didn't convince him." 
 
 "I'm afraid not." 
 
 "I knew it would be so." 
 
 "I remember you said so, Strongheart, but I had to 
 have my try. Now there's only one thing left." 
 
 115
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Strongheart looked his inquiry. 
 
 "Beat it," said Livingston. "I suppose I've no busi- 
 ness to suggest, or advise such a thing, but I can't 
 help it. I can't think of you stagnating here. Your 
 life is your own, old chap. Take it into your own 
 hands."' 
 
 The Indian gazed gloomily at his adviser. 
 
 "I ought not to say anything more about it," said 
 Livingston, hastily, "but who's to stop you, if you 
 decide to clear out and be independent?" 
 
 "Who's to stop me?" Strongheart echoed, as if sur- 
 prised at the question. 
 
 "It's what a white man would do under similar cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 "Yes ! a white man would !" exclaimed Strongheart, 
 with profound bitterness. "That's the difference. You 
 have been making a quick acquaintance with Indians, 
 Livingston. Haven't you discovered why the Indian 
 doesn't cannot take that course?" 
 
 Livingston hesitated. "I think," he ventured, "you 
 suggested it in one of your own remarks yesterday, 
 when you mentioned the Indians' lack of initiative." 
 
 "That's it. God ! how can you expect anything .dif- 
 ferent of us? Here am I, a product of centuries of 
 stagnation. Was there any evidence of progress 
 among the Indians when your people first came to 
 America? Were we not living then as we had lived 
 for unknown ages? Were we not then ruled by the 
 traditions of a hazy past? Was it not clear that our 
 highest aim in life was to do as our fathers had done ? 
 Can you expect a man who is bowed down by such an 
 
 116
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 inheritance to become suddenly independent? He can 
 learn what is in your books, he can soon appreciate 
 the beauties of refinement, enjoy the broader outlook ; 
 he can become a better observer than he was before; 
 he can, and does, as I firmly believe, become a better 
 man ; but can he become a different man ? Don't you 
 see that deep in his nature the Indian persists? and 
 that the descendant of those who did nothing, took no 
 thought toward improving their condition, who could 
 not even invent an alphabet, cannot revolutionize his 
 nature by the mere process of adding to his knowl- 
 edge?" 
 
 Strongheart spoke as if the iron were in his soul, 
 his vibrant tones conveying conviction deeper than did 
 his words. He checked himself abruptly. "Excuse 
 me, Livingston," he resumed, "let us not talk of it. I 
 am grateful for your interest and effort, but it does 
 no good. It only makes me unhappier." 
 
 Livingston held out his hand. "I won't say another 
 word, old chap," he said, "but I do think you inveigh 
 too severely against your race." 
 
 "I do! I do! My personal problem blinds me. I 
 glory in my race. That seems inconsistent, doesn't it? 
 Let it be so. I actually feel proud that my people cling 
 so loyally to their ancient ways according to which 
 they reared generations in contentment if not in what 
 the whites call prosperity. And I believe that my 
 people have it in them to readjust themselves to meet 
 changing conditions, and perhaps strike that always 
 desirable happy medium, which, in this case, would 
 be the progressive life of the whites without its excess 
 
 117
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of artificiality to attain their refinements, comforts, 
 learning, without their greed, their incessant haste, 
 their ostentation." 
 
 "What a dream that is !" cried Livingston. 
 
 "You speak truly. A dream ! I have awakened 
 from it already. Once more, Livingston, thank you, 
 but let us call the subject closed." 
 
 Black Eagle returned to the village next day with 
 some of the men who had accompanied him on Marsh's 
 trip of exploration. 
 
 "It is a journey for nothing," he said to Kiwetin. 
 "We climbed Mujjemanitogidaki (the hill of the evil 
 spirit) and looked over all the land that can be seen 
 from there. You know it well. They told us how 
 the lines would include only the region bearing the 
 white pine. That was what they told us here. Then 
 they wanted to fish, and I left them at it." 
 
 To Livingston, Black Eagle reported that his friend, 
 Nelson, was enjoying himself and getting many good 
 pictures. 
 
 "It is well," Kiwetin said, when Black Eagle had 
 gone from the wigwam. "They will spend three or 
 four days fishing before they know it, and when they 
 return I will easily keep them here until Winterton 
 gets back from Soo." 
 
 Joe, who still acted as cook and special servant for 
 Livingston, piled up skins and blankets outside the 
 wigwam and moved his employer there that he might 
 have more to engage his attention as the hours dragged 
 by. There Livingston wrote again to Dorothy, telling 
 her much about Strongheart and his hard problem, 
 
 118 
 '.
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 giving a summary of his debate with the Chief, and 
 confessing that, though the case seemed hopeless, he 
 could not give up the fanciful design of having Strong- 
 heart complete his education at Columbia. 
 
 "You would like the little beggars who keep the 
 village alive with their yells all day and far into the 
 night," he wrote. "When these Indian kids sleep is 
 more than I know. I hear them laughing and sky- 
 larking when I am dozing off after dark, which comes 
 late here, and their voices are generally the first thing 
 I hear in the morning. For straight, undiluted happi- 
 ness, give me the Ojibway boy. A couple of them 
 had a bit of a scrap this forenoon, just enough to show 
 that they're human, you know; they were playing 
 hunting, so far as I could make out, and one tired of 
 being the bear. When the hunter had whacked him 
 over the back with a stick about a dozen times, the 
 bear rebelled; at least, that was my interpretation 
 Strongheart wasn't here to enlighten me and the 
 hunter liked his stunt too well to change places. So 
 the bear got up and cuffed the hunter good and hard, 
 and the hunter bellowed quite as lustily as a white kid 
 would have done under the circumstances, and then 
 got back at the bear with his fists. Their mother, or 
 at any rate a woman who had authority, butted in and 
 separated them with a rapid-fire scolding, apparently, 
 and after a minute or two of sulks on each side, they 
 began to pitch stones at a stake driven into the 
 ground something like our quoits, quite as harmoni- 
 ous as if nothing had clouded their serenity. 
 
 "This was the only quarrel I have seen among the 
 119
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 kids. Most of the time they are shrieking with laugh- 
 ter. They found me such a great curiosity at first that 
 all play stopped. They would jam at the wigwam 
 door and look in, motionless, silent, for minutes at a 
 time, sizing me up, I suppose, and making up their 
 infantile red minds whether I was worthy of recogni- 
 tion. Evidently they decided that I was, for now most 
 of them speak to me cheerfully several times a day. 
 What little English they know they practice on me. 
 It is inconceivably comical and just a little startling to 
 see a chubby, red six-year-old, his face plastered with 
 evidence of his most recent occupation, his cut-down 
 trousers incommoding him as much as if he wore 
 skirts, his mouth on the broad grin to see such a 
 rudimentary savage concentrate his hospitable stare 
 upon you and hear him say with the utmost cordiality, 
 'Hullo, Livingston!' There's no undue familiarity in 
 that, you must understand. These Ojibways have no 
 word for 'mister/ or anything corresponding to it ex- 
 cept ogema, chief, which, naturally, they won't use in 
 addressing me though there was one occasion when 
 I was alluded to as ogema, which I will tell you about 
 when I return and so, when a kid says 'Hullo, Liv- 
 ingston,' he is as respectful as his language and the 
 customs of his race permit. Oh, I tell you, these 
 people are great! and Strongheart is the mightiest 
 man among them, unless I except his father, the Chief, 
 who is a wonder. 
 
 "There's another thing about them that will inter- 
 est you. Most of us, I think, grow up with the idea 
 that the Indians are dirty. So far as the Ojibways are 
 
 120
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 concerned this is not the case. The Chief's big wig- 
 wam, my present residence, is neat and orderly to the 
 last degree. His housekeeper, so to speak, is Gezhik- 
 way, his daughter and a widow, who comes every 
 morning to 'redd-up' the place. The Chief and 
 Strongheart take their meals at her wigwam. Frank, 
 who has had more opportunity than I to see the 
 domestic life of these people, says all their dwellings 
 are well cared for, and that the greatest care is used 
 in cooking to have clean dishes. The blankets are 
 hung out in the air for hours every dry day, and as for 
 bodily cleanliness, I can speak from my own observa- 
 tion with regard to the kids. Of course they accumu- 
 late some dirt while at play history tells us that in 
 the ancient days before we were civilized, white chil- 
 dren did much the same but the squaws seem to be 
 forever on the watch to wash the dirt off. As I write, 
 a certain strenuous youngster is standing half up to 
 his knees in the lake, bending over, while his mother 
 is scrubbing his face, and that's the fourth time that 
 particular youngster has had to undergo the cleansing 
 process this morning. 
 
 "I can't say so much for the kids' clothes. They 
 wear any old thing, mostly old, but why not? Why 
 should they soil and wear out good clothes here ? This 
 is their summer village. They're all here for a holi- 
 day, just as Frank and I are, and there are no band 
 concerts, or balls, or lawn parties to require the putting 
 on of finery. I tell you, I like them, and it seems to 
 me they've hit off a mighty sensible way of living, 
 right down close to Nature, you know." 
 
 121
 
 STRON G H EART 
 
 Livingston had written himself "to a stand-still," as 
 he expressed it. He folded his letter and gazed idly 
 from one end of the village to the other, the position 
 of the Chief's wigwam in the middle of the semicircle 
 enabling him to take in the whole extent by merely 
 turning his head. Kiwetin and Black Eagle were 
 seated on the ground, smoking, in front of the latter's 
 wigwam, perhaps one hundred yards distant. Two 
 other old men joined them. Strongheart and Mukwa 
 were just arriving with a canoe-load of freshly cut bal- 
 sam boughs to replenish the beds in the wigwam. 
 They brought the canoe to shore and began to unload, 
 when Kiwetin called to Strongheart, who immediately 
 left Mukwa to go on with the work and joined the 
 group at Black Eagle's. 
 
 There followed a scene that stimulated Livingston's 
 wonderment more than anything that had occurred 
 since his arrival in the village. At first there was 
 nothing to attract more than languid attention, a con- 
 versation between Strongheart and Kiwetin, the latter 
 asking quesions, apparently. The Indian voices rum- 
 bled deeply, as if the discussion were of a routine, un- 
 emotional character, and Livingston would have looked 
 elsewhere had there been anything moving at the mo- 
 ment to interest him; but the children were invisible 
 among the trees, and the squaws were either busy in 
 the wigwams, or sitting motionless at the lake shore, 
 as placid and mysterious as the water itself. 
 
 Presently Strongheart's voice sounded sharp and 
 resentful as he gave answer in the one word which 
 Livingston heard understandingly in the whole con-
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 versation. "Kahween! kahween!" (No! no!) said 
 Strongheart, and Livingston wondered what it could 
 be that the young man was denying so earnestly. 
 Thereafter Strongheart's tones were tense; what had 
 seemed to be the sullen humor that so often sat upon 
 him, gave way to a manner betokening remonstrance, 
 if not rebellion. Could it be that Livingston's sug- 
 gestion had borne fruit in an open defiance of paternal 
 authority and tribal law? Livingston's heart quaked 
 at the possibility, for he had regretted his hot-headed 
 advice, and feared to hold himself responsible if it 
 should be followed. The Chief's tones changed, too, 
 and Livingston racked his brain to discover what rnood 
 they voiced. It might be petulance, or indignation, or 
 irony. Whatever it was, it seemed well calculated to 
 arouse Strongheart to a high pitch of passion, for, 
 apparently throwing aside all restraint, he spread his 
 arms wide apart and spoke with great rapidity and 
 all the force of intense feeling that more than once 
 had thrilled the white listener when the words con- 
 veyed a comprehensible message. Even now Living- 
 ston was moved ; it was like listening for the first time 
 to tragic music, the indefiniteness of the appeal awak- 
 ening a vague sense of fear and awe. 
 
 The old Indians listened like bronze sphinxes. Not 
 one restless movement suggested either dissent from, 
 or approval of the orator's views; not one pipe was 
 removed from its grave lips, and the thin wreaths of 
 smoke rising from the group never delayed or speeded 
 their rising in token that the hearers' pulses were 
 quickened by the tempestuous harangue; not even 
 
 123
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 when Strongheart came to his strange climax was 
 there so much as a shrug, or a glance aside, to say 
 that his argument had made an impression one way 
 or the other. 
 
 That climax astonished Livingston beyond measure. 
 Strongheart suddenly put his hands to his body and 
 fairly ripped off his outing shirt and tore it, and his 
 citified necktie, in two ; he cast his hat on the ground 
 and put his foot on it ; fists clenched and raised in air, 
 he stood for a half minute longer, crying out his 
 peroration; then, having paused for a few seconds 
 motionless, silent, his eyes gazing over the heads of 
 his audience to infinite distance, he dropped his arms, 
 turned about abruptly, and went back to his work 
 with Mukwa. 
 
 The old men puffed on as before, and it seemed to 
 Livingston that several minutes elapsed before he 
 heard again the deep rumble of their voices. 
 
 Mystified by this scene, Livingston sat long in retro- 
 spection, recalling the bitterness of Strongheart's Eng- 
 lish speeches, his tragic romance, his furious assault on 
 Fuller; recalling the Chief's solemn condemnation of 
 civilization ; reviewing all the details, picturesque and 
 suggestive, of the primitive life in the village ; and he 
 came to shrink with something like awe from his close 
 contact with elemental passions. What had he, a mere 
 tyro from an artificial civilization of which he knew as 
 yet only its most superficial features, what had he to 
 do with such beings as these? How should he pre- 
 sume to advise and guide them? In this mood he 
 could not bring himself to ask Strongheart about the 
 
 124
 
 STRONGER ART 
 
 scene he had witnessed, and at the time Strongheart 
 made no mention of it; he came and went as before, 
 a little more silent, perhaps, but as solicitous as ever 
 for the comfort of his injured guest. 
 
 Later, when many other things had happened, Liv- 
 ingston learned what it was that had passed before 
 his uncomprehending eyes. The Chief began by 
 asserting that his son had been talking with their guest 
 about schools, and Strongheart acknowledged the fact. 
 Kiwetin reminded Strongheart that he had been to 
 school more than any other member of the tribe; he 
 had been away many years; he knew many strange 
 words ; he could write ; he could read not only English, 
 but the language of a dead people ; and so on, a review 
 of facts to which the son assented sullenly, perceiving 
 that they preluded something which would be to his 
 discomfort. 
 
 "You are discontented with our Indian ways," said 
 Kiwetin, after the groundwork of the discussion had 
 been laid. 
 
 "I am discontented with them," Strongheart re- 
 sponded. 
 
 "You would like to go back to the whites." 
 
 "Yes, I would." 
 
 "You ought to be an Indian." 
 
 "I am an Indian. Therefore I cannot go back." 
 
 "But all the time you miss and regret the ways of 
 the whites, and because we do not adopt them, you 
 would go back." 
 
 "I would like to know more of their ways." 
 
 "Our guest has been inciting you to fresh 
 125
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 discontent. You have asked him to plead with 
 me." 
 
 It was here that Strongheart gave vent to the em- 
 phatic denial that Livingston had recognized through 
 understanding the one word he used. 
 
 "He has talked to me," said Kiwetin, after the ex- 
 plosive "No!" 
 
 "It was his own wish/' Strongheart protested. "I 
 did not ask him to speak to you. I advised against it, 
 for I knew he could not persuade you. You are more 
 fixed than the hills. The sun will rise in the West 
 and the moon give heat, when you consent to see good 
 in the white man." 
 
 "I see good in the white man in his own place," 
 Kiwetin retorted. "The white man's life is his own, 
 and he is welcome to it. But I believe you. Living- 
 ston spoke from his own heart, not from yours, and I 
 like him. He has the courage to speak his mind. 
 He understands us better now, and, before he leaves 
 us, he will not only see that you and all Indians be- 
 long where they were born, but that you are to be 
 despised for wishing to be anything but what Nature 
 made you." 
 
 "Let him see it, then!" cried Strongheart, his pas- 
 sion leaping beyond the bounds set by respect for 
 paternal authority. "What is it to me what he thinks ? 
 What care I what he sees? It is enough that I see, 
 I, Soangetaha, son of Kiwetin. I do know things of 
 which you are ignorant. I do know that your stub- 
 born determination to cling to the old ways will be 
 the ruin of the race. Can I stand by and see my race 
 
 126
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 shrivel on the face of the earth like weeds in Autumn, 
 and not be discontented?" 
 
 "You can be anxious about your race," said Kiwetin 
 harshly, "and still be an Ojibway. I have passed 
 many nights under the stars trying to find in my mind 
 the answer to the question, what is to become of us? 
 and I have been true to my race. I am an Ojibway. 
 I flaunt no rags to show my superiority. I live the life 
 of my people. I wear such clothes as they have chosen 
 to wear since the deer became so scarce that skins may 
 not always be had. I parade no shirts and hats from 
 the white man's cities. I am an Ojibway, and I would 
 have my son be an Ojibway and forget the vanity he 
 learned in his days at the white man's school." 
 
 Then said Strongheart, stretching his arms in a 
 comprehensive gesture, "This is my land, here are my 
 people, here I must live. I am an Ojibway, for such 
 was I born, and nothing can change me. What is 
 this you complain of ? You use many words, but they 
 are as ashes heaped upon the coals of a dying fire. 
 What are these ideas that have burned themselves 
 almost out? You charge me with discontent with the 
 Indian ways. What are they ? Let your memories tell 
 me, for the ways you really have in mind no longer 
 exist. They linger in the recollections of old men, and 
 that is all. You, Chief Kiwetin ; you, Black Eagle, and 
 you others, answer : where is your ancient faith ? has 
 it not faded before the light that shines in the teaching 
 of the whites? Where are your war bonnets, your 
 fringed shirts of deerskin, your decorated leggings? 
 are they not laid aside only to be brought out on such 
 
 127
 
 - STRONGHEART 
 
 special occasions as festivities, or revivals of old cus- 
 toms for amusement only? You cry shame on me for 
 wearing a city hat and a city shirt; what is it you 
 have on? Not such garments as the white men wear 
 who visit us, not such garments as your fathers wore, 
 but a pitiful mixture, part white, part Indian half- 
 breed clothes ! They stand as symbols of your exist- 
 ence, a mongrel life, and you pretend to be proud 
 of it! 
 
 "Oh! the days, the weeks, the months you have 
 spent grumbling to one another at the encroachment 
 of the whites ! They are changing all things, you 
 whine, and, with feeble resentment, you declare that 
 the old Indian ways must be preserved, while all the 
 time you practise some of the ways of the whites, and 
 you know in your hearts that you, or your children, will 
 have to practise still others. Ask yourselves why you 
 have adopted the white man's religion, an imitation 
 of his garments, a weak semblance of his methods in 
 other matters? You know that it is because of a 
 certain power the whites have that is greater than 
 yours. We could attain that power if you would not 
 prevent us. You throttle your race by denying it 
 opportunity to progress. 
 
 "What makes the power of the whites? Superior 
 physical strength ? No ! Superior mental gifts ? No ! 
 KIKENDASSOWIN it is KNOWLEDGE! They have 
 learned, and they know what they have learned. They 
 think fast. Forty times they circle a subject while 
 the Indian is feeling of its outer edge. The Indian 
 sits still and waits, the white man, with sure knowl- 
 
 128
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 edge, goes ahead and acts. We can teach them the 
 secrets of the forest ; they control us by their knowl- 
 edge of the secrets of the air, the water, the lightning 
 and the sunlight. 
 
 "What do you look forward to, you old men? 
 Death! Grim Pauguk holds out his hands not now 
 to men and women here and there, but to a whole 
 people, and you who have the power to thrust him 
 aside with knowledge, you sit idle in your wigwams 
 and resent the efforts of any who seek to gain the 
 power to defeat him. Hear me, Chief Kiwetin: your 
 policy means a choice of shameful death by stagnation, 
 or quick but glorious extermination. I am an O jib- 
 way, and here I throw at your feet the trifles which 
 you have magnified into symbols of my adherence to 
 civilization. Bid me act, and never again will I put 
 on garments of the white man, but in their stead I 
 bid you bring forth the war bonnet. The only way 
 to be Indian is to cast off all traces of civilization. 
 Bedeck yourselves with eagle feathers ; make the lake 
 tremble with the clamor of the war drum ; bid me lead 
 the people to a demonstration that we are Indians now 
 as our fathers were, and that, if we cannot live as 
 our fathers did, we prefer to die in hopeless war. 
 
 "Thus only can we be truly Indian and realize your 
 complaining dreams. Otherwise, Chief, we must gain 
 knowledge, or die ingloriously. I, Soangetaha, have 
 spoken my mind. You have my deepest and most 
 profound thoughts." 
 
 Thus ended the debate between father and son in 
 which each was unjust to the other, and each spoke 
 
 129
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 with imperfect comprehension of the situation. It 
 was Black Eagle who broke the long silence that fol- 
 lowed Strongheart's fiery address. 
 
 "There is much truth in what the young man says," 
 said he. 
 
 130
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 DICK TO DOROTHY 
 
 I've had a severe disappointment which I must tell 
 you about because I have already paved the way for 
 it in this screed, and my record must be complete. 
 Only, when I paved the way, I thought I was prepar- 
 ing a climax of joy. It's about that land-grabbing 
 scheme I tried to upset. I may as well explain now, 
 as I'm pretty nearly over the difficulty, why and how 
 it is that I have found time to write these yards of 
 narrative. I had a bit of an accident, hurt my feet 
 so that walking was out of the question for a few 
 days. Didn't mention it before, for I didn't want 
 anybody to worry, and now there's no excuse for the 
 slightest anxiety, for I tried my weight on my feet 
 today, and stood it very well for several minutes. A 
 week more of rest, and I'll be able to walk and run 
 as well as ever. It was only a sprain, you know, but 
 it might have been worse, and, as a matter of strict 
 fact, I owe my life to Strongheart. I'll go into all 
 the thrilling details when I get back to little old New 
 York. 
 
 So, you see, time would have hung heavy for a 
 man who was perfectly well but under the necessity 
 of keeping still, if it hadn't been that he could imagine 
 
 131
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 he was talking with, or rather at, you by writing this 
 endless screed. That's the trouble with this kind of 
 talk all one-sided. I've had an unfair advantage 
 which I would have surrendered gladly if I could have 
 heard your voice at appropriate intervals in an "Oh, 
 my!" or, "For goodness sake!" only you don't give 
 expression to such frivolous comments so far as I 
 know. 
 
 Well, here we go wandering and maundering just 
 as if white paper cost nothing, and fountain pens never 
 ran dry. You see, I hate so to confess my disap- 
 pointment. Marsh and his party got back to the vil- 
 lage on the fifth day after Steve started to the Soo. 
 Frank, who went with them see note to that effect 
 several pages back reports having had a glorious 
 time, superb fishing, magnificent pictures, and all that. 
 So he's all right, and we will dismiss him. The land- 
 grabbers pitched camp where they were before, just 
 as if they expected to stay all summer, and the old 
 Chief gave them the glad hand and joshed them mer- 
 rily. Kiwetin would have made a howling success 
 as a politician if only he could have been born in 
 New York and had the advantage of a Tammany 
 education. It was his policy, you see, to jolly them 
 along, for he had promised Steve not to refuse to sign 
 before he came back. Marsh thought the venerable 
 diplomat was all ready to fall, and delicately suggested 
 a resumption of the council sessions, to which Kiwetin 
 blandly expressed his entire willingness, but pointed 
 out that nothing could come of it just yet, as Black 
 Eagle, one of the sub-chiefs, was absent. 
 
 132
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "It wouldn't be binding without Black Eagle's mark 
 on the paper," quoth Kiwetin, "and if we go over all 
 the business now, we'll have to go all over it again 
 when he gets back." 
 
 "How long's he going to be gone?" Marsh de- 
 manded, with what I thought was an air of suspicion. 
 
 "Oh, tomorrow probably," says Kiwetin, "or the 
 day after, possibly. Not later than the day after, 
 surely." 
 
 The ancient wire-puller was safe on that, for, the 
 moment he heard that Marsh and his crew were ap- 
 proaching the village, Kiwetin sent Black Eagle off 
 in a hurry on the way to the Soo. Black Eagle was 
 instructed to hit the trail until he got so far from the 
 village that none of Marsh's crowd would likely stum- 
 ble on him, and wait there till Steve came along and 
 then return with him. That device, you see, made it 
 certain that Marsh and his men would stay till Steve 
 returned. 
 
 Steve came in next evening, that was yesterday, 
 bringing with him a surveyor and a kit of instruments. 
 The surveyor, Henry Johnson, was led to Kiwetin's 
 wigwam and quartered in it. He told us things at once 
 that justified all our suspicions, for it proved that he 
 was the very man Marsh's crowd had engaged last 
 Spring to fix the lines of the tract they wanted. John- 
 son had a government map of the region, on which 
 there were few details, of course, but which was suf- 
 ficiently accurate for our purposes, and Johnson could 
 fill in such matters as lakes and high hills with pencil. 
 Well, he had marked on the map the exact boundaries 
 
 133
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 as they would have fallen if the Indians had accepted 
 the definitions of latitude and longitude laid down in 
 the contract. Every acre they own was included in it ! 
 The map Marsh showed was a fake. You see how 
 the ignorant redmen would have been taken in. The 
 map offered by the whites wouldn't have counted, but 
 the precise boundaries as defined in the papers would ; 
 and once the scoundrels had got possession of the 
 land, I am as certain as can be that the Indians would 
 have been frozen out of the company, and their pos- 
 sessions would have dwindled to their meagre hold- 
 ings on the reservation proper, which, of course, they 
 cannot dispose of, the law forbidding it. 
 
 I think I hear you wonder why I am disappointed. 
 Why! when we got up this morning we discovered 
 that our white adventurers had folded up their tents 
 in the night, or at all events at daybreak, which is 
 around three o'clock, and stolen away ! I did so want 
 to be in at the death and see those fellows when the 
 exposure of their rascality was made. I had some hot 
 speeches all framed up for the occasion, too, and I 
 can't foresee any opportunity of shooting them off 
 unless a misguided constituency some day sends me to 
 Congress and I can discover frauds which can be lam- 
 basted by substituting "wrongs of the peepul" for 
 "wrongs of the Indians," and things like that. You 
 ' see, the land-grabbers had recognized Johnson, and 
 one of them got a chance to ask him why he was here. 
 He answered frankly enough that he had been engaged 
 to verify the lines he had made for them some months 
 before. Of course he never would have had a chance 
 
 134
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to make that admission if Frank or I could have had 
 the management of his coming into the village. We 
 would have hidden him away, and sprung him at the 
 dramatic moment like a jack-in-the-box; but Steve is 
 no diplomatist. Honest as the sun, and simple as the 
 most untutored Indian, he marched right in without 
 concealment, and the land-grabbers, seeing that ex- 
 posure was certain, preferred to sneak rather than 
 face it. 
 
 Their departure was confession of their fraudulent 
 intent, though we needed no more evidence than what 
 the surveyor gave us. Poor Steve was all broken up 
 over it, for he was certain that his friend Marsh would 
 be cleared of any suspicion of wrong-doing. Kiwetin, 
 too, was too much cast down by the plain conviction 
 of his old friend to rejoice much over the fact that his 
 people had been saved from inestimable loss. I think 
 Steve was actually feeling sore against me, because I 
 had been instrumental in exposing his friend, but that, 
 happily, is all over now ; for, just before noon, Marsh 
 and Pierre, his half-breed interpreter, paddled to the 
 village and explained things. That is, Marsh did. 
 Marsh came straight up to Kiwetin's wigwam where 
 Frank, and Strongheart and I were, as well as the 
 Chief and Black Eagle. There was a lump on his 
 cheek, a fresh scar on his nose, and a blue spot at the 
 northeast corner of his left eye. Gee-whiskers! but 
 didn't he look mad ! but kind of sorrowful and digni- 
 fied, too. 
 
 "My friends," said he, "I been took in. I been done 
 good. Them fellers played me fer a sucker and got 
 
 135
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 me dead to rights. I thought they was square, so help 
 me! I b'lieved they was on the level, or I wouldn't 
 have gone into their company." 
 
 I must interrupt Marsh's speech to explain that he 
 characterized the company in terms that cannot be 
 employed in describing the scene to a young lady. 
 "What did I know about their blamed latitude and 
 longitude ?" cried Marsh, only he didn't say "blamed." 
 That's a euphemism that will serve sufficiently for the 
 ears of the effete and tender East, but which would be 
 a meaningless misfit in the wilderness. Anyhow, 
 Marsh went on almost tearfully to protest that he had 
 been deceived, and that he had not been invited to 
 join the company until after the surveying had been 
 done. They offered him a good looking sum, part 
 cash and part stock, to go in with them on account of 
 his knowledge of the Indians, and they had agreed that 
 he might conduct the negotiations in his own way, 
 which is to say the Indian way, and be the boss of the 
 business until the papers were signed. He was a cats- 
 paw, you see, and he had no suspicion of crookedness 
 till the party lit out while the village was asleep. He 
 went with them wondering, because, if for no other 
 reason, there was pay coming to him, the cash part of 
 his remuneration. After traveling some hours, and 
 pestering them with questions, it seems he came to 
 an understanding with them, and he was so outraged 
 that he wouldn't have taken their money if they had 
 offered it, which they didn't. On the contrary, he 
 preferred to get even by thrashing the whole crowd. 
 I have an idea, from the marks of battle on Marsh's 
 
 136
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 face, that they were just a little too many for him, but 
 he evidently got some satisfaction out of it, and when 
 the clouds of carnage cleared away, he compelled 
 Pierre to come back with him. 
 
 So we all shook hands with Marsh, for we believed 
 him, and Steve Winterton was the happiest man I ever 
 saw. The only thing Steve said was, "I knowed Tom 
 Marsh was straight," but he has been sizzling with 
 joy ever since the explanation, sitting on a log, his 
 face set in a placid grin, his eyes fixed in supreme con- 
 tent on Marsh, who is going to stay a day or two just 
 to cement the pleasant understanding arrived at with 
 the Indians. 
 
 That line of dots means that a day has elapsed since 
 I wrote the words above it. I think this is Thursday, 
 but I am not sure, for nothing happens here to distin- 
 .guish one day from another, and I've lost my count. 
 Yes, I'm much better, thank you. With the aid of 
 crutches which Strongheart made for me, I hobbled 
 this morning from one end of the village to another, 
 saying "bozho" at every wigwam, and getting the 
 pleasantest greetings from all the people, men, women 
 and children. Frank and I will yet make the trip to 
 the lake which no white man has seen, and to which 
 we were on the way when my accident happened. But 
 that isn't what should make this page of thrilling in- 
 terest. All that has gone before is overshadowed by 
 the fact that STRONGHEART is GOING TO COLUMBIA! 
 Doesn't it take your breath away? It does mine, and 
 I hardly know how to describe the way the thing came 
 
 137
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to pass. It really couldn't be done unless one could 
 get into the minds of certain Indians and tell all that 
 went on there for a considerable time. It is clear 
 that the Chief has been mulling the thing over at least 
 since the time I had my argument with him, and it is 
 inferable that he has discussed it with Black Eagle, and 
 probably with other old men. Nevertheless, nobody 
 was more surprised than Strongheart. I had tried to 
 give up the dream, and had almost succeeded, but 
 Strongheart never had permitted himself to cherish it, 
 and 
 
 Well, about dark last night, Frank, Steve and 
 Strongheart were with me in the wigwam. There had 
 been wind and rain in the afternoon, leaving the even- 
 ing chilly. So we were inside with a good fire going 
 and making the quaint house as warm as an oven. 
 We were still going over and over the land-grabbing 
 business, and Steve said again that he "knowed Tom 
 Marsh was straight," when in came Chief Kiwetin 
 and Black Eagle. There was nothing significant in 
 that, and they took their seats and lit their pipes as if 
 they meant merely to join our conversation, or listen. 
 It proved that they were there for a special purpose, 
 and were waiting politely for a cue to introduce it. 
 Steve happened to give the word. 
 
 "I ain't telled ye," said he, "how I happened to find 
 Johnson. I went to Silas Walker, one o' them salt- 
 water sailors I telled ye of, to git his sexton. Si was 
 to hum, an' ready enough to lend his sexton, which, 
 says he, it's strange that the old thing should be gittin' 
 into service agin, fer it's only a few months since I 
 
 138
 
 STRON G HEART 
 
 lent it out to another party. Is it gittin' so that you 
 have to use a sexton to lay your course in the bush? 
 says he, an' I asked him who the party was that bor- 
 ried his sexton, an' it's Henry Johnson, the surveyor, 
 says he, he had a job locatin' lines an' wanted my 
 sexton to complete his outfit, he havin' his quadroon 
 but needin' the sexton to find out where he was at 
 before sightin' or somethin' o' that sort, says he. So 
 I streaked it to Henry Johnson, an' as 'twas a matter 
 o' business with him, he come along 'thouten argy- 
 ment." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, gravely, "everything hap- 
 pened fortunate after we once got started, but we no 
 should got started if it no been for Livingston." 
 
 Now, of course that was true, and I knew it, but I 
 hastened to disclaim any merit, or influence in the 
 affair, sidetracking all my scheming with no end of 
 mock modesty, for I was proud as a hen with a brood 
 of ducks over what I had accomplished. In other 
 words I fibbed in the way men generally do under 
 such circumstances. It's a way the male creature has 
 of throwing bouquets at itself, for if he appears be- 
 comingly modest, his deeds shine with the added lustre 
 reflected from modesty as a background, don't you see ? 
 Well, the old Chief let me gabble my gabfest, and 
 when I had finished, "Yes, yes," said he, which appears 
 to be his way of negativing anything that he regards 
 as nonsense. It's highly disconcerting, that "Yes, yes," 
 of his when you come to know what it means. I think 
 I "blushed like a fool. Anyhow, I ought to, and I was 
 sorry I hadn't let him spiel on without interruption. 
 
 139
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "And Livingston," he went on, calmly ignoring my 
 vapid disclaimers, "no could done what he did without 
 knowledge of things the rest of us know nothing about. 
 I have thought much about this. Before Winterton 
 returned with the surveyor I saw that if it prove that 
 white men were trying to cheat us, the discovery of 
 that fact would be due to Livingston's knowledge. 
 That mean, he had white-man knowledge with which 
 to fight white-man dishonesty. This is very important. 
 We Indians must not overlook it. More and more 
 every year we have to deal with white men who are 
 strangers to us, not like Winterton and Marsh, who 
 are old friends and honest men, and it appears that 
 even Marsh was deceived, for Marsh is like us in not 
 having high knowledge. So it seems that knowledge 
 is great protection to people, and we Indians must 
 have as much protection as we can get. Government 
 is supposed to take care of us, but government cannot 
 see all things. It has few eyes for what goes on in 
 forest. So it mean that we Indians must learn to take 
 care of ourselves. This is a task what must fall on 
 the young, for men like Black Eagle and myself can- 
 not learn new ways. It is necessary, therefore, that 
 somebody who is of us, and who has interests of the 
 people at heart, should acquire white-man knowledge 
 for our protection. So we have changed our minds. 
 The way this cheat was discovered and prevented con- 
 vinces us that our future leader should have more of 
 that education what formerly we despised. We were 
 wrong, for we did not understand. It seems there is 
 no telling when knowledge of certain thing may be 
 
 140
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 useful and necessary. Even knowledge of language 
 of a dead people may some day save Indians from 
 injury. I do not know, but, after what has happened, 
 I think all things are possible with knowledge. Liv- 
 ingston and Nelson, you been our good friends. We 
 ask you, do you think Soangetaha could learn what is 
 necessary in school you go to?" 
 
 I was bewildered with joy, and I had had just 
 enough experience with the Indian mind to perceive 
 that the old Chief mustn't be interrupted. You have 
 to let these people work out their reasoning in their 
 own way. For both these reasons I held my tongue, 
 wondering how to contrive an answer that should lead 
 Kiwetin on to the next point, but Frank spoke up 
 quickly. 
 
 "Of course !" said he. "There's nothing better than 
 Columbia. They teach everything there." 
 
 "Yes, yes," Kiwetin responded, "but would teach- 
 ers let Soangetaha study there?" 
 
 "Let him ?" yelled Frank, "they'd tumble over them- 
 selves for the privilege of teaching him. Will you let 
 him go?" 
 
 'I been thinking of it," the Chief answered with 
 some hesitation. "You been our very good friends, 
 and if there is no objection I should like it much if 
 Soangetaha could go to same school with you." 
 
 I tried to give Frank a tip, but he let out a wild 
 hurrah! before he caught my wink. You see, my 
 debates with the Indians had shown me that in a mat- 
 ter like this they would be preternaturally solemn, 
 utterly unable to appreciate the light-heartedness with 
 
 141
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 which students take their opportunities for education, 
 and I was just a little afraid that Frank would overdo 
 the effervescent act. The Chief, you see, had swung 
 clear around the circle, and, from opposing education 
 and condemning civilization, had come to be a peti- 
 tioner for them. It was our business to take him as 
 we found him and not disturb his poise. But Frank's 
 exuberance did no harm. Kiwetin said "Yes, yes," in 
 a confused kind of way, and filled his pipe, and while 
 he was about that, I got a cue to Frank in a whisper, 
 and then added my mite to the discussion. 
 
 "Of course Soangetaha would have to pass an exam- 
 ination," said I, "but I think he could do it easily, 
 and if there was any danger, he could go back with us 
 when we return, a few" weeks ahead of school open- 
 ing, and prepare for exams by special study with a 
 tutor." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, then, with much more 
 composure, for this was talk after his own spirit, sol- 
 emn, bristling with difficulties, you see. And then we 
 discussed details for an hour or more, details with 
 which I don't need to burden you, for you can easily 
 see what would be the nature of them. In the matter 
 of expenditures, the Chief said the tribe would be 
 ready to meet the cost, and I gathered that some sort 
 of head tax would be laid, Strongheart going not 
 merely as his father's son, but as the tribe's representa- 
 tive. Anyhow, they see their way in the matter, the 
 thing that interests me being that Strongheart will 
 be with us when the term begins. 
 
 All through this discussion Strongheart never said 
 li?
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 a word. He wasn't called on to speak. It was his 
 business, now as always, to obey the dictates of his 
 elders. But at the end, when Kiwetin knocked the 
 ashes from his pipe and made some remark about 
 going to bed, Strongheart addressed him briefly in 
 O jib way and then shook hands with his father and 
 Black Eagle, saying "Migwetch," which is Ojibway 
 for "Thank you." After that he shook hands with me 
 and Frank, with a "Thank you" in English, and went 
 out. He didn't show up till breakfast time this morn- 
 ing. Winterton tells me that he went from us to his 
 canoe, paddled around the lake for hours, and after- 
 wards ran miles and miles along the forest trails, keep- 
 ing incessantly on the go all through the night. It 
 was his way of working off his excess of joy, I sup- 
 pose, and if he hadn't taken such strenuous measures 
 he might have shocked the Chief by just such yells and 
 cavorting as Frank and I wanted to indulge in. Really, 
 if it hadn't been for my lame feet, I fear I couldn't 
 have resisted the temptation. 
 
 143
 
 Part II 
 CIVILIZATION 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 DOROTHY 
 
 Fourscore children were dispersed over the slope 
 below the trees that grew near the summit. The sultry 
 August sun put a high premium on shade that day, 
 and the grown-ups who had undertaken the task of 
 looking after the children were glad that the con- 
 figuration of the land made it possible for them to sit 
 under the trees where they could keep their charges in 
 view without any sacrifice of duty. It was sunlight 
 for the youngsters, let it broil and bake as it would, 
 straight, unimpeded sunlight, uncontaminated with 
 city smoke and dust, unconfined by high buildings to 
 a fragmentary stretch along one side of a paved street. 
 Sunlight and grass, license to roll on the turf, liberty 
 to pick such flowers as had survived the midsummer 
 drought! How they reveled in it! Here and there 
 you might see one lying at full length, clutching at the 
 grass as if to assure himself that it was real. Again 
 you would find a girl plucking buttercups with fever- 
 ish haste, forming them into a tasteless bunch of 
 
 144
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 bloom, as if she feared the homely flowers might run 
 away before she could get them. Groups were at 
 play, sometimes the identical ring games you may 
 observe on Second Avenue after nightfall, sometimes 
 imperfect attempts to imitate the May festivities which 
 a few had seen from a distance in Central Park, when 
 more favored children sang to their queen, and frol- 
 icked about the gaily colored pole. 
 
 It was their one great holiday, the one day of the 
 Summer for most of them, the day when they were 
 expected to get down to earth without let or hindrance, 
 and yet, so significant was it, nearly all the juvenile 
 members of the party bore evidence of being especially 
 dressed for the occasion, and dressed as they would 
 be for a function at the parish church, or the school- 
 house. No costly clothes, at that, but no little finery, 
 if colored ribbons count as such, and considerable re- 
 gard for conventionality, if starched skirts and spot- 
 less linen collars may be regarded as concessions to 
 formality. There were exceptions, not every one giv- 
 ing the tribute of fresh clothes to the holiday, for some 
 undoubtedly came in the only garments they had ; but 
 starch or no starch, white linen or bare necks, there 
 was no aristocracy of clothing in the field community. 
 They were on even terms, out for fresh air, according 
 to the grown-ups, for a good time, according to the 
 youngsters, and to judge by ruddy faces and cheerful 
 voices, they were getting their fill of both. 
 
 Sheltered by benignant oaks, a young woman sur- 
 veyed the chattering slope, her eyes glowing with 
 quiet enthusiasm. She glanced occasionally at a spot, 
 
 145
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 also in the shade, where hampers were in process of 
 unpacking at the hands of two hired men, assisted 
 or superintended, or hindered, goodness only knows 
 which, by three exquisitely gowned girls whose voices 
 rivaled those of the children in gaiety of tone and 
 incessant action. 
 
 "We must have the jam under constant observa- 
 tion," said one, with an air of profound wisdom. 
 
 "And the ice-cream must be dished out by a person 
 with a mathematical eye," declared another. 
 
 "We might make Ralph Thorne do it." 
 
 "Perhaps Dorothy would prefer to take care of the 
 ice-cream herself, as it's so important." 
 
 "Whatever became of that box of cake oh ! here it 
 is. Open it for me, please." 
 
 She who overlooked these preparations for the feast 
 which was by no means the least of the day's joys for 
 the children, was quite as exquisitely gowned as her 
 assistants, and, in the eyes of the young man who 
 sprawled on the ground beside her, she was herself the 
 most exquisitely charming creature that the sun had 
 the privilege of driving to shelter in any part of the 
 world. Young men are sometimes inclined to bias in 
 matters of this kind, but he may not have been all 
 wrong, nevertheless. 
 
 "It's good of you, Mr. Thorne," said she, "to take 
 so much interest in my waifs and strays." 
 
 "How could I help being interested in anything that 
 interests you, Miss Nelson?" 
 
 She looked down at him for a moment with a smile 
 of tolerant amusement. Then she laughed outright. 
 
 146
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "How impossible you are!" she exclaimed. "What a 
 self-sacrificing hypocrite !" 
 
 "Miss Nelson!" and he looked deeply injured. 
 
 Again she laughed. "Who was it who said some- 
 thing to the effect that a human being is a book? It 
 doesn't matter who, I am only thinking how plainly 
 you are printed, Mr. Thorne." 
 
 His reproachful eyes and down-drawn lips revived 
 her merriment. 
 
 "That's a compliment," she assured him. "It was 
 no reflection on your personal appearance, which is 
 quite lovely, really. I was alluding to your mind. You 
 are read as easily as any of these children, and surely 
 that's complimentary, isn't it? Anything but am- 
 biguity in character ! But I must laugh at you, for I 
 know you are unutterably bored " 
 
 "Now, Miss Nelson ! you really discredit your own 
 perceptions. Am I so easily read? Then don't you 
 see that it would be impossible for me to be bored 
 when I have the privilege of being near you?" 
 
 "How nice! But that's really the point, don't you 
 see ? You are trying to convince me that you are my 
 willing slave " 
 
 "Guilty, Miss Nelson." 
 
 "Then you must pay the penalty, and if you have 
 not a real interest in what interests me, you must 
 assume it and act accordingly. Go and see what those 
 boys are doing please," and she indicated a group of 
 youngsters at some distance from any others who were 
 evidently deeply absorbed over something on the 
 ground. 
 
 147
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Thome arose obediently and strolled toward the 
 group. His approach was not noticed by the boys, for 
 their attention was concentrated on their occupation, 
 and when he came near enough to hear some of their 
 words, his face lighted with an amused smile. This 
 he quickly dismissed, and set his features in an ex- 
 pression of severe disapprobation which he fancied 
 appropriate to the occasion; for what he heard was, 
 "Come seven ! come eleven !" One of the boys had a 
 pair of dice, some had a few pennies, and craps, the 
 vice of the pavements, was in full swing on the inno- 
 cent turf. 
 
 "See here, kids, you must chuck that," commanded 
 Thome. 
 
 There was a hurried scramble to get out of the way, 
 a hasty grabbing after the coppers that lay on the 
 ground as stakes, a turning of alarmed eyes in the 
 direction of the speaker. For the moment the young 
 miscreants had forgotten that they were not in the city, 
 and the interrupting voice appealed to them as that 
 of authority in the person of the obnoxious policeman 
 with his long club and his implacable hostility to over- 
 steppers of morality. But it was not a policeman; 
 it was no helmeted minion of the law; only a good- 
 looking young man in white flannels, whose presence 
 in the party theretofore had been an unexplained mys- 
 tery. This was no figure to strike terror to the gamin 
 of the East Side. Rather was he to be defied, if not 
 openly derided. 
 
 "Gwan!" said the audacious leader of the group, 
 "youse aint de big noise of dis 'scursion." 
 
 148
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Well," retorted Thorne, nettled at their manifest 
 disdain, "who is, then?" 
 
 "Miss Nelson." 
 
 "Oh, is she ? Well, Miss Nelson told me to see what 
 you boys were up to. If you don't think I've any right 
 to stop you, go and ask her what she thinks of crap 
 playing." 
 
 "Don't b'lieve she knows wot 'tis," said a boy, sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 "Don't deceive yourself, Johnny. Miss Nelson hasn't 
 been good to you ragamuffins all the year, and spent 
 most of her time where you live, without learning what 
 craps is." 
 
 "Say, youse!" exclaimed the leader, warningly, 
 "youse put de lid on yer talk box or dere'll be trouble, 
 see ? We'll spoil dose white pants o' yourn " 
 
 "Get out!" Thorne interrupted roughly, and with a 
 threatening gesture. "You don't deserve the treat Miss 
 Nelson has got up for you. Behave yourselves now, 
 or I'll see that she packs you off wfthout anything 
 to eat." 
 
 Presumably the appeal to their appetites had more 
 effect on the juvenile gamblers than the possibility 
 of physical violence at the hands of a walking fashion 
 plate ; and yet, accustomed to being chased from their 
 illegal pastime, it may be that they beheld in Thorne 
 the momentary embodiment of irresistible compulsion 
 and fled from him as a matter of habit. At all events, 
 they fled, and he returned to the shade and Dorothy. 
 
 "What was it ?" she asked. 
 
 "I should think," said he, "it would be enough to 
 149
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 discourage you from any further efforts to improve 
 the condition of such ungrateful beggars. They were 
 playing craps." 
 
 "That's a game with dice, isn't it ?" 
 
 "Yes, and you understand, don't you? It's gam- 
 bling. They were playing for money." 
 
 "Horrors!" she exclaimed in manifestly mock ap- 
 preciation of his scandalized expression. He found it 
 exceedingly difficult to understand her, impossible to 
 anticipate what seemed to him her quickly changing 
 moods. Whatever attitude he assumed, whether sin- 
 cerely, or in deliberate attempt to gain her sympathy, 
 she rebuffed and antagonized him. 
 
 "Surely," said he, and there was no mistaking his 
 earnestness, "you do not look lightly on their gam- 
 bling? You must take that seriously." 
 
 "I do," she returned a little sadly. "I should like to 
 wean them from craps, for, as they advance in the 
 social scale, it is so likely to lead to poker, and bridge, 
 and betting on the races." 
 
 Thome was bewildered. "Advance in the social 
 scale," he echoed confusedly. 
 
 "Why not?" she demanded. "Is it likely that efforts 
 to make good citizens of these boys are going to fail 
 utterly? Surely there are possibilities for some, if 
 not all, for they're just as human as you and I. There 
 can be no dispute that gambling is an evil, no matter 
 what the social level of the gambler. Of course I 
 should like to kill the passion for it in these boys, and 
 I try to, but it lies very deep. I hope you told them 
 how wrong it was?" 
 
 150
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 She concluded in a tone that was just a shade 
 lighter, and the young man was quick to infer that 
 she was again mocking him. 
 
 "I told them," he answered somewhat stiffly, "that 
 if they thought it was right to play craps they should 
 ask you about it." 
 
 "Did you !" she exclaimed heartily. "Now that was 
 fine! You couldn't have given them a better form of 
 reproof, Mr. Thorne, and I'm really grateful. I know 
 that I have influence with them, some influence, I hope 
 to make it greater, and the reference of any question 
 wherein there is no real doubt, to me, is a help." 
 
 Thorne was mollified instantly, and, such was his 
 moral make-up, he had no difficulty in dismissing from 
 his consciousness the fact that his attitude to the boys 
 had been anything but sympathetic. "You are most 
 admirable in all this, Miss Nelson," said he, "but I 
 don't see how you can stand it. These boys knew 
 better. Think of their rank ingratitude ! I told them 
 they didn't deserve a holiday. Don't it make you feel 
 that your sacrifices are thrown away?" 
 
 "I am sorry you told them they didn't deserve a 
 holiday," said Dorothy. "Yes, they knew better, and 
 the fact that they forget the delights of the country 
 in favor of the vice of the city, shows only how deep 
 the wicked passion lies, and how hard and patient the 
 effort must be to eradicate it. I am sometimes a little 
 disheartened, yes, sometimes, but with myself, not with 
 the subjects. You are quite mistaken in regarding me 
 as sacrificing anything. This work is my highest 
 pleasure. I may not accomplish much, but I can at 
 
 151
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 least have the joy of trying. You see, I am more 
 fortunately circumstanced than these," and her eyes 
 swept the grassy slope. "I cannot see how anybody in 
 what is called good circumstances can forbear from 
 trying to help those who are poor and unfortunate. 
 Forgive me, Mr. Thorne. That's awfully like preach- 
 ing. I didn't mean to slip into it. Confess now, a 
 sermon would bore you." 
 
 The seriousness had departed, leaving her face all 
 smiles, roguish, enchanting. 
 
 "On my word," he cried, "I can only repeat what I 
 said before, and you must believe me. It is impossible 
 for anything you say or do to bore me. You are so 
 far above me, so far superior to any other " 
 
 "Oh, Dorothy! Dorothy! Come here!" chorused 
 the three assistants at the hampers. 
 
 "Excuse me," she said, rising hastily, "I must sacri- 
 fice your compliments to the necessity of averting dis- 
 aster. No, don't disturb yourself, Mr. Thorne," as 
 he began to rise. "I'm sure there's nothing that need 
 trouble you." 
 
 He was glad to take her at her word, for it meant 
 that she would return, and that the intimate conversa- 
 tion might be renewed at the point where it was broken 
 off. It had been impossible thus far to bring her mood 
 even approximately into tune with his own, and in 
 spite of her evident disposition to regard him flippant- 
 ly, he could but follow her example and try, and the 
 present situation was well calculated to serve his 
 wishes. So, while he raved a bit inwardly that some- 
 thing had happened just as he was getting well started, 
 
 152
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 he foresaw no great difficulty in resuming the subject 
 after the emergency at the hampers had been met and 
 overcome. 
 
 Thorne threw himself back on the turf, inclined to 
 bask in the light of such happiness as would be his 
 when Dorothy Nelson should one day say she loved 
 him, but there was a tiny cloud in his sky, not such as 
 might properly enough have been visible to him if he 
 could have perceived the immense gulf between him- 
 self and Dorothy, but a realistic cloud in the shape of 
 an inquisitive small boy who stood like a statue, star- 
 ing at him. While talking to Dorothy he had not 
 seen the youngster, and he was foolishly mortified now 
 when he suspected that the lad might have overheard 
 that ardently begun speech. 
 
 "Hello, Johnny, what you doing here?" asked 
 Thorne, trying to profit by Dorothy's comments, and 
 pumping as much kindness into his tone as he could. 
 
 "Nawthin'," said the boy. 
 
 "Well, wouldn't you just as lieve do it somewhere 
 else ? Down at the other end of the field, eh ?" 
 
 The boy grinned. "I like this well enough," said he. 
 
 "Oh, you do ! Well, see here, perhaps we can strike 
 a bargain. See this?" and he held up a small coin. 
 The boy's eyes glistened, and Thorne tossed the coin 
 to him. "Now," he added, "chase yourself, beat it, 
 mosey, understand?" 
 
 It might have been better for Thorne had there 
 been less understanding in that street arab's mind than 
 there was. He caught the coin and ran down hill, 
 much to Thome's relief, but presently, when he came 
 
 153
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 near some of his friends, the boy slackened his steps, 
 and his face puckered in deep thought. 
 
 "Say, fellers," said he, "see dat?" and he displayed 
 his coin. 
 
 "Where'd ya get it?" was the natural inquiry. Such 
 wealth was not to be possessed by one of their number 
 without immediate suspicion regarding its acquire- 
 ment. 
 
 "Dat guy wot come wid Miss Nelson an' de goils," 
 he answered, "he give it to me. Wot d'ya t'ink it's 
 fer? Say, he's dopy on Miss Nelson, he is, an' when 
 he's jollying her he don't like to be piped off, see? He 
 wants to be all by his lonesome wid her, an' he gimme 
 dis to beat it. Say, ain't dat a graft?" 
 
 It surely was, and as such not to be neglected. 
 The youngsters of the streets are ingrained oppor- 
 tunists; they learn early that Fortune is not to be 
 flouted by delay, but must be wooed persistently and 
 speedily. So they put their prematurely wise heads 
 together to decide upon the best means of taking ad- 
 vantage of the occasion, well knowing that Fortune 
 would be unlikely to throw a soft guy in their way 
 again. The result of their excogitations was presently 
 a cautious advance of the whole party, about a dozen, 
 up the hill. When they were part way up, all but one 
 lay down, eyes directed toward the shade, while the 
 one sidled onward as if indetermined. Dorothy was 
 still busy with the emergency at the hampers, and 
 Thorne, deep in a revision of his ardent speech, was 
 beginning to feel that he had caught the winning 
 words, when upon the glowing page of his fancy fell 
 
 154
 
 STRONG HE ART 
 
 a blot. It jarred him to the depths to see that grinning 
 youngster almost over him. He sat up. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you," he began, and then perceived 
 that the boy was not the one who had been bribed to 
 depart a minute or two before. "Run away," he said 
 crossly. "I don't want you here." 
 
 The boy stood motionless. Thorne felt in his pocket 
 and found a dime. "What'll you take," he asked, "to 
 beat it and not come back till you're called for din- 
 ner?" 
 
 "That," said the boy, pointing to the coin. 
 
 Thorne tossed it to him and lay down again as soon 
 as he saw his tormentor move quickly away. The 
 spell had been broken somehow. He could not get 
 back to the precise phraseology that had seemed o 
 promising of effect. Dorothy's presence might recall 
 it. He raised himself on his elbow to see what she 
 was doing Holy mackerel ! there was another prying 
 ragamuffin sidling up to the shade with an expectant 
 grin on his face ! 
 
 "What the dev " Thorne began, and collected him- 
 self. "What do you want?" he demanded. 
 
 There are lads of the street whose wits are so sharp- 
 ened that they can meet any attack with appropriate 
 repartee and win a victory by sheer audacity, but 
 Number Three had not risen quite to that level. His 
 lips moved, but words wouldn't come ; so he swallowed 
 hard and grinned. The light of suspicion began to 
 dawn upon Thorne, such a light as should have made 
 him view the foibles of all mankind with tolerance if 
 not with mirth ; but Thorne was not of the kind, nor 
 
 155
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 in the mood, at that particular time, to see the humor- 
 ous side of the affair. 
 
 "Get out of here, you damned monkey," he ex- 
 claimed under his breath, "get out before I wring your 
 neck !" 
 
 The boy found words at that. "It's wuth a nickel," 
 said he. 
 
 "Worth nothing!" retorted Thorne, thoroughly an- 
 gry ; "those other kids put you up to this," and then 
 he became speechless, for a dozen boys arose from 
 their places in the grass a little way down the slope, 
 and began to storm the heights. They had yielded to 
 impatience. From a distance it had begun to look as 
 if the graft were in danger of exhaustion, and there 
 was no strong, diplomatic hand to hold them in check 
 that the game might be played warily. Each was 
 incited by eager desire to have a chance at the last 
 coin, if but one more should be forthcoming. 
 
 Thorne was so shocked with amazement, so outraged 
 by their audacity, that his impulse actually was to run 
 away, for he was utterly at loss how to meet this 
 cohort. He stood up, and the boys halted a few paces 
 distant. As he merely frowned at them in deep de- 
 spair of saying anything that could reach their intel- 
 ligence without also reaching the ear of Miss Nelson, 
 and so offending her, the boys, one and all, put on the 
 expectant grin. It was Thome's turn to swallow, for 
 it wouldn't do at all to utter the words that arose 
 within him, oh, such feeling words as were then 
 throttled ! 
 
 "Well," he said, after having mastered himself, but 
 156
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 his tone was black with wrath, "speak up! What's 
 your song?" 
 
 "We'll beat it 'f you want us to, mister," replied 
 the boldest of the attacking party, with ingratiating 
 blandness. 
 
 "Beat'jt, then." 
 
 "How much, mister?" 
 
 "Nothing, you infernal little blackmailers! Not a 
 red! Understand? Now get out before I tell Miss 
 Nelson what a nuisance you are. There'll be no ice- 
 cream and cake coming to you if you don't stop an- 
 noying me, understand?" 
 
 The boys hesitated. Their grins gave way to scowls 
 of disappointment mingled a bit with fear, for this 
 white-clad young man evidently was just mean enough 
 to tell tales as he threatened, and Miss Nelson would 
 likely talk to them in a way that was a hundred times 
 worse than a licking, or going hungry; but it was 
 hard to forego such graft as two of their number had 
 found so easy and profitable. 
 
 "Nickel apiece aint much, mister," grumbled the 
 leader. 
 
 "Not a red!" snapped Thome. "Get out, now, or 
 I'll get you into trouble." 
 
 At that moment Dorothy finished what she had to 
 do at the hampers and began to return. The boys 
 saw her and wheeled about. Most of them ran down 
 the slope, but the leader and one or two others were 
 more dignified in their retreat; and the leader could 
 not be vanquished thus. He must have the last shot, 
 if he could not get a nickel. So he turned around. 
 
 157
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Say, youse," said he, with lofty scorn, "youse is a 
 four-flusher, youse is." Then, undoubtedly relieved of 
 a heavy burden, he stalked after his companions. 
 
 "What was it, Mr. Thorne?" asked Dorothy, look- 
 ing from the retreating boys to his flushed face. 
 
 "Oh," he answered, with a brave attempt at in- 
 difference, "just some impudence of the young sav- 
 ages." 
 
 "I am sorry if they have annoyed you," said she. 
 "I'll have a talk with them." 
 
 "Don't, please," he urged, and he was wholly sin- 
 cere, for he was morally certain that if she approached 
 the boys they would give her a true account of the 
 episode, and he could not endure the thought of being 
 made ridiculous in her eyes. "Let it go, Miss Nelson. 
 Everything is all right now you have returned." 
 
 "You are so easily pleased," she laughed, "but your 
 speaking of savages reminds me of something that will 
 interest you. You're going to have a savage of the 
 real kind in Columbia next term." 
 
 Thorne looked his undeniable interest and curiosity, 
 and Dorothy continued, "The boys would rebuke me 
 for calling him a savage, I'm sure, and I really don't 
 mean it, but force of habit, you know. The street boys 
 cannot give up their gambling when they come to the 
 country, and I find it hard to forget the prejudices of 
 my childhood when I think of Indians. I used to be 
 so frightened at the very thought of them." 
 
 "Do you mean that there's an Indian coming to 
 Columbia ?" 
 
 "Yes, an Ojibway, son of a chief. His name is 
 15F
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Strongheart. The boys came upon him quite by acci- 
 dent. I infer from what Dick writes that it was some 
 sort of accident to himself, and that Strongheart saved 
 his life. Dick hasn't said much about that part of it, 
 but his letters are full to running over with Strong- 
 heart, who must be a decidedly interesting man. I 
 am quite eager to see him." 
 
 "So you've heard from Dick," said Thorne, and a 
 girl of much less fine perceptions than Dorothy's could 
 not have failed to note the twang of jealousy in his 
 tone. He had spoken with strenuous effort to appear 
 indifferent, but his soul was in torment, and the pain 
 at his heart inevitably found an outlet in his voice. 
 
 "Yes," said Dorothy, sweetly, quite as if she found 
 pleasure in adding to his torment, "and such letters! 
 He was incapacitated by his accident, it seems, and 
 so had no end of time for writing. There was a great 
 deal to write about, and his letters are quite like a 
 continued story. He has become deeply interested in 
 the Indians, and especially in Strongheart, whom he 
 fairly idolizes." 
 
 "I'll bet there's one person he idolizes more," thought 
 Thorne, morosely. "How does it happen that the In- 
 dian is coming to Columbia?" he asked. 
 
 "He wants further education, and he comes here 
 simply because the boys are here. If they had been in 
 Yale, doubtless he would have gone there. But there 
 are great reasons at the base of his decision to come 
 to the East at all, reasons and difficulties, opposition, 
 events leading to a change of views it's all in Dick's 
 letters. Would you like to read them?" 
 
 159
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Charmed," said Thorne, and Dorothy bit her lip. 
 
 In fact the burden at his heart was somewhat light- 
 ened. It was inconceivable that Dorothy Nelson would 
 descend to a vulgar bluff, and when she offered him 
 the privilege of reading Dick's letters, she meant it. 
 Therefore they could not be love letters, and therein 
 lay comfort; but the sense of rivalry lingered and 
 embittered the rest of the day. Dorothy chatted on 
 about the trip of her brother and his chum in the wil- 
 derness, and Thorne listened with polite but for the 
 most part silent attention. In due course he did his 
 share manfully in distributing refreshments to the 
 fourscore hungry youngsters; he helped assemble 
 them when it was time for departure; and up to the 
 very last he put himself to vast discomfort in his effort 
 to win the gracious esteem of the girl who gave so 
 much of her time to philanthropy. 
 
 No further opportunity for intimate conversation 
 arose during the day in the fields. Perhaps Dorothy 
 was to blame for that, for the inquisitive boys kept 
 their distance, and the other girls seemed willing that 
 Dorothy should monopolize Thorne ; but youth is per- 
 sistent when it comes to pushing an affair of the heart, 
 and Thorne bided his time with patience worthy of 
 his cause, and worthy of a more admirable character. 
 It seemed to him that he might speak when at last the 
 children had been dismissed in their home neighbor- 
 hood, and the responsibilities of the day, so far as 
 Dorothy was concerned, were over; but Dorothy 
 could, or would, talk only of her self-appointed work. 
 
 "You have been very good, Mr. Thorne," said she. 
 160
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "I really didn't think you could endure the whole day 
 with us." 
 
 "Miss Nelson ! when you " 
 
 "When I, and not philanthropy, was the magnet," 
 she interrupted merrily. "I understand, Mr. Thorne. 
 Let all that go without saying, and try, oh ! do try to 
 get up a real interest in human beings. There is such 
 need of sympathy in the world. Don't you see?" 
 
 She spoke . pleadingly, as if her one desire were to 
 make a convert. 
 
 "I'm not lacking in interest in one human being," he 
 began, but she would not listen. 
 
 "That is selfishness," she said, "absolute selfishness, 
 and you don't do yourself credit by even thinking in 
 such a way at the end of such a day." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," he responded with resentful 
 humility. "But the difference between us is one of 
 degree, I'm sure. I could be philanthropic, too, if the 
 cause were big enough. What I can't do, and I might 
 as well confess it, for you seem to see it plainly enough, 
 is to get down with any sort of enthusiasm to the 
 pleasures, the needs if you prefer, of a parcel of raga- 
 muffins. It seems like such a waste of splendid effort 
 and spirit, Miss Nelson. There is nothing so pitiable 
 as misdirected energy, is there? And when it is mis- 
 directed consciously, it is unpardonable. A person of 
 unusual intelligence should make sure to find a practi- 
 cable field for her energy. I hope I do not offend 
 you?" 
 
 "I like you ever so much better when you are honest, 
 Mr. Thorne." 
 
 161
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 He grimaced uneasily. "You hit hard, don't you?" 
 he said by way of passing lightly over the allusion to 
 his earlier pretenses at interest in her charges. "You 
 don't seem to give me credit for trying to get up an 
 interest in your street gamin. But let that pass. Take 
 my view of philanthropy, now. If it were a matter 
 of building hospitals, or organizing relief for some 
 community overwhelmed by earthquake, or fire " 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted, with an air of finality, "that 
 is like a man. He must have something huge, im- 
 posing, obvious, to stir him. It shows how necessary 
 it is that there should be women willing to submerge 
 themselves in attention to little things. Good night, 
 Mr. Thorne," and she held out her hand with a smile 
 that was as free from mockery as it was beautiful. 
 
 Thorne was enraptured and driven to despair by it. 
 So worn was he by the long day of boredom, and his 
 futile efforts to arouse her interest in himself, that he 
 took his dismissal without further resistance. 
 
 162
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ON THE QUADRANGLE 
 
 It was about two o'clock of a morning early in 
 October that the watchman at Columbia rubbed his 
 eyes in confident expectation that the action would 
 cause a strange figure on the quadrangle to dissolve 
 and vanish. The vision persisted, however, and the 
 watchman drew near, with what caution and misgiv- 
 ing it would be unfair to say, for in the precincts of 
 learning it is unlikely that superstitious fear would 
 linger. What he saw was a tall man standing motion- 
 less, both hands raised above his head, which was 
 thrown back, as if he were invoking the stars, or un- 
 seen spirits in the air. 
 
 "Mine ! mine !" the watchman heard the man say in 
 a tone of the deepest exultation. 
 
 The man's back was to the watchman, who stepped 
 around in front and looked him over curiously. At 
 once the man lowered his arms, but without the slight- 
 est manifestation of discomposure. The exultance that 
 had vibrated in his voice, shone like a fire in the night 
 from his eyes, and his lips were parted in a smile of 
 unutterable satisfaction and joy. He returned the 
 watchman's look, and greeted him with a cheery "Good 
 morning." 
 
 163
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Good morning," the watchman responded dubi- 
 ously. 
 
 "Did you hear what I said?" asked the man, and 
 again he raised his arms, but this time in a comprehen- 
 sive gesture as if he would embrace all the buildings 
 facing on the quadrangle. "It's mine !" he continued, 
 smiling again, "mine! You don't understand that, do 
 you, watchman?" 
 
 The watchman could not reconcile the claim with 
 facts, but before he could say so, the other went 
 on impetuously, "How would you feel if a multi- 
 millionaire should take you to a beautiful park where 
 there was a grand mansion furnished with every lux- 
 ury, and in it a strong-box filled with gold, and should 
 tell you it was all yours? You could not believe it 
 true, not at first, watchman, but when at last he made 
 you believe, when you saw that it must be so because 
 you were living there, with everything you desired at 
 command, how would you feel then ? You don't know, 
 do you? You don't know how you would feel, or 
 what you would say, but you would have to say some- 
 thing, watchman. It is not in the power of any human 
 being of any race to shut himself up entirely in the 
 presence of such vast fortune. And so I tell 
 you again, it's mine ! mine ! I shall take it away with 
 me, all I can carry, but," and here his smile became 
 quizzical, "I shall leave behind me all that I take away. 
 Do you understand that ?" 
 
 The watchman felt moved to express relief that the 
 man cherished no rapacious designs on the buildings, 
 but the overmastering passion of the other restrained 
 
 164
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 his flippancy, and he replied doubtfully, "Learnin' I 
 s'pose you mean, aint it?" 
 
 "Learning, yes. Knowledge and, I hope, wisdom! 
 Think of it but no, it would not do you any good, 
 for you could not understand. If you could, I should 
 not be talking to you. There's another way of stating 
 it. Here am I, in the midst of it, a part of it ; it be- 
 longs to me, and I belong to it. This, watchman," 
 again the comprehensive gesture, "this is where I 
 belong ! Come now, is it not past comprehension ? Is 
 it not wonderful?" 
 
 "1 s'pose," said the watchman, slowly, "it ain't to 
 be expected that a man of your race could take it 
 all in." 
 
 The man's laughter awoke the echoes of the quad- 
 rangle, exuberant, happy laughter. 
 
 "Race! race!" he shouted; "what glorious non- 
 sense! How much of it do you take in, watchman? 
 You've been here for years, haven't you? Tell me 
 how much you have taken from that ?" pointing to the 
 library, "and from that?" indicating University Hall, 
 "and the rest of them? So much a week, is it not? 
 Ho! ho! the sublime conceit of the superior race! 
 Mind you, watchman, I should not say this if I thought 
 you could understand it, for it would profane my mood 
 to say aught that could pain or offend another. I do 
 not expect you to understand. Can you translate the 
 message of the birds that sing when your night's work 
 is over ? Can you put the starshine into words ? Can 
 you tell what the wind whispers to these roofs and 
 walls?" 
 
 165
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Don't you think you'd better be going to your room, 
 sir ?" suggested the watchman, at the first pause in the 
 rhapsody. 
 
 Again that ringing, hearty, happy laughter. "Splen- 
 did !" cried the man. "I have freed my spirit to an 
 ear that listened and understood not a word! What 
 luxury ! Yes, watchman, you are quite right. I should 
 go to my room. You must think well of me, friend. 
 I have given you something to cheer many a lonesome 
 night with strange memories, haven't I? Come, you 
 smoke, of course. Try this. Good night, watchman." 
 
 The man dashed away at a run, his steps almost 
 noiseless on the paved ground. The watchman looked 
 confusedly at the cigar that had been thrust into his 
 hand, turned it over several times, at last put it into 
 his pocket and returned to his station where for some 
 minutes he sat in deep thought, occasionally tapping 
 his head, and wagging that useful but not over- 
 enlightened member, mournfully. 
 
 166
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE NOCTURNE IN G MAJOR 
 
 Strongheart's advent to Columbia was like that of 
 any other earnest student. He took the examinations 
 with no other ambition with regard to them than that 
 they should determine his proper place in the student 
 body, glad to review subjects in which he was deficient, 
 glad also to pass in others and therefore gain the 
 privilege of beginning new or higher subjects. Gen- 
 erally speaking, his presence was little marked at first, 
 each of the many members of the university having 
 his special interests to absorb his attention, the upper- 
 classmen having associations already formed that made 
 them unobservant of strangers, and the newcomers be- 
 ing adrift until accident and the discoveries of con- 
 geniality should enable them to form associations of 
 their own. As a newcomer, Strongheart was excep- 
 tionally favored in having the ardent friendship of 
 two popular upper-classmen, Nelson and Livingston 
 both being proud to introduce him to their friends, to 
 whom the Indian quickly appealed on his own merits, 
 for he was always in quiet good-humor, earnest with- 
 out being aggressive, interested in all that was brought 
 to his attention. As Billy Saunders put it, "You forget 
 that he's a redskin as soon as you've said 'how ?' " 
 
 167
 
 STRON G HE ART 
 
 Little time was allowed to elapse before Strong- 
 heart's discoverers presented him to their friends out- 
 side of the university. His first meeting with Doro- 
 thy, of whom he had not heard until he came to New 
 York, was at her home, where he was the guest of 
 honor, if one may use so pompous a phrase in con- 
 nection with a small and informal dinner party. Nel- 
 son and Livingston bad-thought it all out during their 
 last day in the wilderness when, after having visited 
 the lake which had been their first objective, they spent 
 a night at the reservation, to which Kiwetin and his 
 people had returned. Both looked forward to the 
 home affair with eager anticipation such as any can 
 imagine who have ever found a treasure which they 
 are sure all their friends will appreciate. 
 
 "Seems as if I couldn't wait to spring him on the 
 crowd," Livingston had said, and Nelson, less im- 
 pulsive, but equally enthusiastic, had replied that for 
 Strongheart's sake it would be well to wait a bit after 
 his arrival in the city. "Let him get shaken down into 
 his new surroundings," said he, wisely. 
 
 "I suppose so," Livingston admitted ruefully. "It'll 
 have to be at your house, of course." 
 
 "Rather!" returned Nelson. "You can't expect us 
 all to go up to Albany just because Strongheart is 
 your particular catch." 
 
 "Molly must be there." 
 
 "Sure. She'll balance Strongheart, though, if we 
 have Molly, we must also have Billy, mustn't we?" 
 
 "I'd like to have the whole football team so far as 
 numbers are concerned, but of course I don't say that 
 
 168
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 seriously. We want this a kind of family gathering. 
 Billy? Billy Saunders? Yes, I s'pose so. Billy's all 
 right. You're thinking that he's rather fond of Molly, 
 aren't you?" 
 
 "Well," said Nelson, dryly, "some folks remarked 
 that he couldn't keep his eyes off Molly whenever she 
 was visible last term." 
 
 Molly was Livingston's sister, *also a student in New 
 York. During the preceding Winter she had been in 
 attendance at the National Academy of -Design, where 
 she covered some acres of white paper with black li~es 
 representing Roman heads and Greek limbs. She 
 called them studies in the antique, and her one ambi- 
 tion, despite the persistent attentions of Mr. William 
 Saunders, and no end of other good fellows, was to 
 get into the life class. 
 
 "Terrible thing, this having a younger sister to feel 
 responsible for," said Livingston. "I don't know 
 whether Molly cares a rap for Billy, but if she did I 
 think I should feel relieved. He's a good fellow, all 
 right, if he doesn't lead his class in mathematics. 
 Billy, of course. He'll balance Dorothy, I s'pose. 
 That means we must have two other girls to balance 
 we-uns." 
 
 "Well, there's Betty Bates and Maud Weston, from 
 the Art School. They're thick with Molly, and prob- 
 ably you'd not find anybody more interested in an In- 
 dian than art students." 
 
 The plain fact was that the make-up of the party 
 was a matter of supreme indifference to Livingston, 
 once it was established that Dorothy and his sister were 
 
 169
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to be present. Observe that his own sister did count ; 
 he had mentioned her first, and, in further evidence 
 of his brotherly interest let it be recorded that he had 
 written her one letter during his absence in the wil- 
 derness, and sent her a picture postcard from every 
 stopping place where such necessities of modern travel 
 were to be found. 
 
 So Livingston said, "All right, Betty and Maud it is. 
 They're the right sort. Snail we let it go at that?" 
 
 "No more?" 
 
 "Well, it isn't my house, and if it were, Frank, I 
 honestly think that, for the first occasion, we'd all have 
 a better time if we kept the numbers down. Not for 
 the sake of being select, you understand, but for con- 
 centrating the joy, so to speak." 
 
 Thus it was decided, and such was the personnel of 
 the first social gathering Strongheart attended, with 
 the addition of Mrs. Nelson, Frank's mother. 
 
 The girls were all of a flutter over the event; that 
 is, the contingent from the art school. Livingston 
 conveyed the invitation to them in person, for he could 
 not forego the enjoyment of seeing their manifesta- 
 tions of interest which could not have been more 
 spontaneous and effusive if he had been the discoverer 
 of the North Pole and were about to set that rare 
 object before them. Not one of them had ever seen 
 an Indian outside the Sportsman's Show at Madison 
 Square Garden, or in the life classroom into which 
 they took occasional surreptitious glimpses. To have 
 one all to themselves was more than a joy, it was a 
 distinction. 
 
 170
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Will he be in full regalia?" asked Molly. 
 
 "He will have all his clothes on," her brother an- 
 swered soberly. 
 
 "I should hope so!" indignantly, "but I mean, will 
 he wear the clothes of civilization, or the picturesque 
 garments of his race? Does he paint his face when 
 he goes to a function ? Oh ! do you suppose he would 
 pose for me?" 
 
 "Don't be silly, sis," said her brother ; "Strongheart 
 is a gentleman. See here, look at him," and he dis- 
 played one of Nelson's numerous snap shots. 
 
 The girls crowded around the discoverer, and im- 
 mediately there were exclamations of unaffected aston- 
 ishment and admiration. 
 
 "Is it possible that this is an Indian ?" gasped Molly. 
 
 "He doesn't look a bit like a savage," said Maud. 
 
 "Why! it's a beautiful face," said Betty, holding 
 her breath in very awe. 
 
 Livingston was abundantly satisfied. "Friday even- 
 ing," said he, pocketing the picture in spite of their 
 frantic demands for another look. 
 
 Dorothy was no less interested than the art school 
 girls, but in another way. "I should think," she said, 
 when the chattering trio arrived at her home ahead of 
 the young men, "that Strongheart would appeal to 
 you less as a curiosity than as a man worthy of the 
 profoundest respect owing to the great purpose of his 
 life. Think of devoting one's self to the uplifting of 
 an entire people !" 
 
 "Dear me !" exclaimed Molly, aghast, "is that what 
 he is? I thought he was just a student, like the rest 
 
 171
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of the boys, only a real savage instead of the imitation 
 article. Dick never said anything about his having a 
 purpose in life. It robs him of half his interest. I 
 declare! if I can't think of him as an Indian, I'd 
 rather go back to my antiques." 
 
 Dorothy laughed and twined her arm affectionately 
 about Molly's waist. "Come, Miss Chatterbox," said 
 she, "does anybody go to the National Academy who 
 hasn't a purpose " 
 
 "Bless me! yes, lots of them." 
 
 "But not you, surely. Why are you there ?" 
 
 Molly struck an attitude and answered with rapt 
 gaze, "Art, with a capital A." 
 
 "Very well," said Dorothy, "are you any the less 
 interesting for that?" 
 
 "Certainly not, Dorothy. On the contrary, my 
 value, speaking of course from the viewpoint of 
 desirable young men, is enhanced by my appar- 
 ent unattainability, for I stand aloof from all 
 frivolity " 
 
 The end of the speech, if any were intended, was 
 lost in a peal of laughter at the inconceivable picture 
 of a non-frivolous Molly Livingston. 
 
 "But about Strongheart," she insisted, "is he so 
 absorbed in his devotion to a whole people as to over- 
 look the existence of individuals?" 
 
 "I think not," said Dorothy, "but I have yet to see, 
 as well as you. I simply know that his coming to 
 Columbia is due to the need of his people for enlight- 
 enment. He will one day be chief, and he wishes to 
 fit himself to lead his people upward now that their 
 
 172
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 conditions are changed, and the old, simple forest lifi 
 is no longer possible." 
 
 "A future chief !" exclaimed Betty. "It's like enter- 
 taining a prince, isn't it?" 
 
 "Grand!" said Maud. 
 
 "I've wondered whether he understands the use of a 
 knife and fork," said the irrepressible Molly. 
 
 "Oh ! don't mention knives !" cried Maud. "I've 
 had such perfectly delicious thrills when I've thought 
 of the possibility that his savage instincts might be 
 aroused in the dining-room. I've been scared half to 
 death about it, and now I'm scared the other half 
 because he threatens to bring with him the ponderous 
 peace of a bishop." 
 
 "I sha'n't know what to say to him," said Betty, 
 whose blue eyes viewed everything, animate and in- 
 animate, with placid bewilderment. What Betty was 
 in the art school for, nobody knew, she least of all. 
 A person who was not devoted to Art-with-a-capital-A 
 might have guessed that it was to beautify and purify 
 everything she came in contact with. You couldn't 
 look at her drawing of a rugged Roman senator and 
 fail to see that his sculptured eyes would have been 
 baby blue if the marble bust had been colored in har- 
 mony with Betty's copy. Her Venus di Milo was 
 positively a pretty girl just on the verge of dousing 
 her blue eyes in tears over the loss of her arms. 
 Blessed be Betty ! type of her who never will be any- 
 thing but woman whether she strives in Art, or stuffs 
 her head with Greek roots, or gives faithful attendance 
 at the Browning Club. 
 
 173
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 If Strongheart had known the nature of the antici- 
 pations with which his coming was honored, he might 
 well have shrunk from the ordeal, and yet, when at 
 length the real Indian stood before them, dignified but 
 agreeable, apparently perfectly at ease, he faced young 
 ladies whose demure conduct masked their giddiness, 
 and gave no hint of the curiosity that stirred wildly 
 within them. Only one thing occurred to distinguish 
 the introduction of the Indian to the ladies from such 
 a ceremony as would have taken place had the subject 
 been an ordinary white friend of the students, and the 
 exception, appropriately enough, was due to Molly. 
 She gave the big, dark man her hand with unaffected 
 and unreserved cordiality, and said, "I am awfully glad 
 to meet you, Mr. Strongheart, for I have wanted to 
 thank you for saving my brother's life." 
 
 "I thought he was worth saving at the time," 
 Strongheart responded, "and now I know it." 
 
 Molly dropped him a comical courtesy in acknowl- 
 edgment of the subtle compliment which was conveyed 
 more by the Indian's smiling eyes than by his words. 
 
 There are here and there past mistresses of social 
 diplomacy who have the knack of greeting a stranger 
 in such a way that his pride is delicately flattered with- 
 out being so exalted as to make him self-conscious ; 
 he is made to know that he is welcome, and that some- 
 thing in his character or career distinguishes him as 
 one especially esteemed, but just what his distinction 
 is, he is left to wonder with a pleased sense of his 
 importance in the lady's eyes ; which is to say that he 
 is captured, foot, horse and artillery, not merely ready 
 
 174
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to lay down his arms, but already surrendered at dis- 
 cretion and gladly awaiting the pleasure of his captor ; 
 in still other words, he becomes suddenly conscious of 
 his good fortune in making this lady's acquaintance, 
 and therefore is put in the very best mood for dis- 
 playing his own social attractions. Such a hostess was 
 Mrs. Nelson, and her daughter, with her utterly con- 
 ventional words of greeting, was a good second. Maud 
 manifested fear neither of savage nor bishop when it 
 came her turn to shake hands with the stranger, but 
 bewildered Betty, conscious only that she was address- 
 ing an alien to whom she must say something, looked 
 awesomely up at the big man and stammered, "How 
 do you do? I I've heard so much about you er 
 How do you like America?" 
 
 "My people have always been fond of the place," 
 Strongheart answered with the utmost seriousness. 
 
 Student folk are not famous for their consideration 
 of others' feelings, and poor Betty was overwhelmed 
 with confusion at the laughter that followed. "I guess 
 you've forgotten," shrieked Molly, "that he's more 
 American than you are." 
 
 "Why, yes! I'm so stupid," said Betty, contritely. 
 
 "Not at all," Strongheart protested. "There are two 
 kinds of America, are there not? Your kind, with 
 its old-world ways, and mine with its ways of prehis- 
 toric time. You asked, of course, how I liked the 
 America with which you are familiar, and if I had 
 not been stupid I should have told you that I like 
 very much what I have seen of it, Miss Bates." 
 
 Betty's expression of gratitude for the Indian's mag- 
 175
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 nanimity in thus coming to her rescue was so ingetwr 
 ous that not the most inconsiderate student could have 
 laughed again, and the episode was quickly forgotten. 
 Introductions once accomplished, the talk ran for 
 awhile on everything except topics in which an Indian 
 might be supposed to have a special interest. Nelson 
 and Livingston talked of college matters, football 
 mainly, the girls contributing an intelligent and enthu- 
 siastic share to the discussion of the latter subject in 
 which Billy Saunders ought to have shone, for he was 
 a tower of strength on the team, and tradition had it 
 that he endured the drudgery of an academic career 
 solely for the compensation of playing the game ; but 
 Billy was dismally handicapped by the presence of 
 Molly, for he was in that adoring and adorable con- 
 dition into which a sturdy young man falls when he 
 is blindly in love and thinks he has concealed the fact 
 from everybody including the girl in the case. So 
 big Billy was as silent as big Strongheart, who never 
 volunteered a remark, but answered with entire readi- 
 ness whenever a question was addressed to him. 
 
 It was not altogether the exuberant, unconscious 
 selfishness of youth, which so often leads young people 
 to direct conversation to the exclusion of all subjects 
 in which their patient elders might participate, that 
 induced Nelson and Livingston to keep the talk away 
 from anything that might be regarded as drawing out 
 Strongheart. There was really some measure of de- 
 liberation in it, for each feared that the Indian might 
 be embarrassed, and each knew that it is not easy for 
 an Indian to converse freely with strangers. In the> r 
 
 176
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 way they were helping him to get used to the atmos- 
 phere, and yet, when he did speak, there was no indi- 
 cation that he needed the help. It became Mrs. Nel- 
 son's duty to give the Indian the intimation that he 
 also was one of the party, and not merely a spectator. 
 
 "Are your first impressions of Columbia pleasant?" 
 she asked, at a convenient break in the football gabble. 
 
 "I think there are no words, madam, in my language 
 or yours," he replied, "that could say how pleasant. 
 It is a beautiful dream, thus far, and my only un- 
 pleasant feeling is fear lest I wake from it." 
 
 It might have embarrassed a veteran society man to 
 note how the girls became silent and fixed their eyes 
 intently on Strongheart when he spoke, but he was un- 
 disturbed, presumably unaware of their rapt attention. 
 
 "I sometimes wish I could awake from a dream in 
 New York and find myself in the woods," said Molly. 
 
 Strongheart smiled agreeably at her, but made no 
 verbal response. 
 
 "Ha!" said Livingston, "I was in for a dream in 
 the woods from which I shouldn't have waked at all 
 if it hadn't been for Strongheart." 
 
 "I've never been clear about that," said Mrs. Nel- 
 son. "We quite understand that we owe it to you that 
 we still have Richard with us, but how did it come 
 about?" 
 
 Strongheart hesitated, glanced at Livingston, who 
 was not disposed to help him, and replied, "Why, I 
 hardly know myself. I saw him in the water, and as 
 he did not seem to be able to get out by himself, I 
 helped him. That was all." 
 
 177
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "That's all right, girls," said Livingston, "but it 
 doesn't suggest Strongheart's ability as a swimmer. 
 I'm not crediting him with courage, for I suppose the 
 act didn't require any, but, with all his clothes on, 
 he must have had to swim some, for I couldn't help 
 myself. Didn't know anything about it till he had 
 me lying, all comfy, by a fare." 
 
 "Strongheart built the fire first, and then pulled Dick 
 out," explained Nelson, gravely, whereat there was 
 mild laughter. 
 
 "I suppose you are quite a* home in the water?" 
 suggested Mrs. Nelson. 
 
 "I cannot remember when I could not swim," 
 Strongheart answered. 
 
 All through the dinner, Molly held herself in check, 
 but when it was over, and before music, or any gen- 
 eral form of entertainment had been suggested, she 
 yielded to her ravenous desire for information and 
 opened up on Strongheart with, "Please, Mr. Strong- 
 heart, you must excuse me, but I'm just dying to ask 
 you a thousand questions. Do you mind?" 
 
 "Not at all," he replied, and there was unmis- 
 takable amusement in his smile. "It is only a 
 matter of time. We might go on the instalment plan, 
 if you like." 
 
 "Good! Then tell me, you must pardon my ignor- 
 ance, which is proper, Mr. Strongheart, or Mr. So- 
 angetaha? That's your real and truly name, isn't it?" 
 
 If he had been any but an Indian, one might have 
 suspected that he was having difficulty in suppressing 
 outright laughter. 
 
 178
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Neither is strictly proper, Miss Livingston," said 
 he, "from the Ojibway point of view. We don't mis- 
 ter anybody, you know." 
 
 "Well, but you don't expect us to omit the mister, 
 do you?" 
 
 "Certainly not, if you regard me as something very 
 terrible." 
 
 "Oh ! but I don't." 
 
 "Then omit it. I shall feel that we are on good 
 terms if you do." 
 
 "I'll do it! But which shall it be? Strongheart, or 
 Soangetaha ?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter. They mean the same." 
 
 "But haven't you any other name? A given name, 
 like Dick, or Frank, or anything?" 
 
 What a grateful ray might have fallen upon the 
 heart of Mr. Saunders if she had added, "or like 
 Billy?" But she denied him that trifling solace, poor 
 devil ! 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Strongheart answered. "I think 
 there were a dozen or so at the last count." 
 
 Molly's eyes opened wide. "How ever can you re- 
 member them?" she asked. 
 
 "I do not try to. One name is quite enough. The 
 others are never used. You see, the O jib ways name 
 their children from circumstances attending their birth, 
 or that occur early in life, and, as the years pass, if a 
 child's life is eventful, a good many names are given 
 to signalize the different events. After a time one of 
 these names becomes fixed by general usage; often it 
 is a matter of accident, or a freak in popular taste 
 
 179
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 which one, and thereafter the man or woman is known 
 by that one name." 
 
 "I see," said Molly, "and that verifies what I was 
 told by somebody, or what I read somewhere, that all 
 Indian names have a significance, an appropriateness 
 that is generally lacking in the names of civ I 
 mean " 
 
 "No," Strongheart interrupted with a hearty laugh, 
 "you mean civilized. Go on." 
 
 Molly's cheeks were on fire. 
 
 "Oh ! what a break !" howled Livingston, in broth- 
 erly delight at her confusion. 
 
 "Dick!" cried Molly, almost in tears, "you know I 
 didn't mean Mr. I mean, Strongheart, I assure you 
 I didn't intend to draw any ungracious distinction. 
 Honest, I didn't think of you for an instant as any but 
 one of ourselves." 
 
 "I am sure of that," he responded gravely, "and I 
 thank you for the attitude. It is perfectly true, how- 
 ever, that my people are not civilized, and I should be 
 very foolish if I tried to blink the fact." 
 
 "It is what accounts for your being one of us, isn't 
 it?" suggested Dorothy. 
 
 The Indian turned and looked straight at her, and 
 a perceptible pause ensued before he replied, "Yes, 
 Miss Nelson, yes, that is quite true." 
 
 "You must steel yourself against sensitiveness, I 
 fear," said Mrs. Nelson. "We whites are likely to 
 make many an unwitting allusion in your presence that 
 we would not make if you were not so unquestionably 
 on our level as to make us forgetful." 
 
 190
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "I think I am deaf to such allusions, madam." 
 
 "There was a time when you weren't, though," said 
 Livingston. "I made break after break during the first 
 hours of our acquaintance, and suffered abominably 
 when I recognized them. At that time I thought you 
 were sensitive, old chap." 
 
 "I was. I did not know you. I was guilty of the 
 weakness of my race in being suspicious of all whites. 
 I had to become convinced of your absolute sincerity, 
 and you must admit it did not take long." 
 
 "Right you are. Cheer up, Molly. Your big brother 
 said lots of fool things before he learned better, but 
 Strongheart is a forgiving creature, and you have the 
 advantage of being sponsored " 
 
 "Bother, Dick! Do be quiet. Anyhow, I'm going 
 on with my inquisition. May I ?" 
 
 "I should be sorry if you did not, Miss Livingston," 
 Strongheart answered. 
 
 "Well, what I was trying to come to was this : what 
 is the special significance, or appropriateness of your 
 name ?" 
 
 The Indian had then his first moment of palpable 
 embarrassment. "Oh," he replied hesitatingly, "I be- 
 lieve it was some fancy of an uncle who was good 
 enough to be fond of me when I was a little fellow." 
 
 "Dodged!" cried Nelson. "That doesn't go at all, 
 Strongheart. The girls want the story, and they shall 
 have it." 
 
 "No, if you please," Strongheart stammered, "I'd 
 much rather not. It's only a bit of village gossip " 
 
 "That's all right, I'll be the gossip. You're fam- 
 181
 
 STRONGH EART 
 
 ished for a smoke, I know. Come, Dick, take Strong- 
 heart into the library and give him a cigar." 
 
 "Come on, Strongheart," said Livingston, with alac- 
 rity. 
 
 The Indian resisted. "On my word," said he, "I 
 had much rather stay here than smoke." 
 
 "Can't be helped. Choice of evils, old chap. It's 
 smoke in the library, or stay here and roast through 
 Frank's narration. Take hold of him, Billy, and rush 
 him in." 
 
 Strongheart put a good face on the matter and 
 arose. "Ladies," he said, "I am the captive of the 
 paleface and must submit to the torture of absenting 
 myself." 
 
 Billy Saunders glanced appealingly at Molly, but 
 her fascinated gaze was fixed on Strongheart, so, with 
 deep melancholy clouding his heart, he followed Liv- 
 ingston and the Indian to the library. Nelson laughed 
 lightly when they had gone. 
 
 "Strongheart never could have been induced to tell 
 the story," said he, "and it would have been exquisite 
 torture to him to sit here and hear me tell it. I had 
 it from Black Eagle, for I asked the same question 
 Molly did, and when I could get no satisfaction from 
 Strongheart himself, I worried the other Indians till 
 I found one who could speak English intelligibly and 
 was willing to talk to me. So far as I could make out, 
 our friend was about ten years old at the time he got 
 the name that has stuck to him. It was while the tribe 
 was summering at the same place where we found 
 them last July. Strongheart was then staggering un- 
 
 182
 
 STRONGMEART 
 
 der the preposterous name of Tetebahbundung, which 
 means judge, and which was applied to him somewhat 
 in jest on account of his ability to settle the quarrels 
 of his playmates. He and his little sister went out 
 berrying together one morning. She was then about 
 five years old, I think. They knew the trails there- 
 about quite as well as did their elders, and nobody felt 
 any anxiety when they didn't return to the village by 
 midday, but there was some little wonderment when it 
 came to be about three o'clock and there was no sign 
 of them. So the uncle our friend spoke of hit the 
 trail to see what had become of the kids. The matter, 
 even then, you see, didn't appeal to the Indians as 
 serious enough to justify a general searching party. 
 
 "Well, the uncle had got some distance from the 
 village when he met Gezhikway, the little sister, hurry- 
 ing home so frightened she could hardly speak. In 
 fact, the only word she could say was 'mukwa,' which 
 means, bear. At that the uncle bade the child run to 
 the village as fast as she could and tell the others to 
 bring guns, while he hustled along the trail at full 
 speed. He came by and by to a tolerably wide 
 stream across which was a fallen tree that Had been 
 trimmed of its branches, and so served as a bridge. 
 The boy was on the bridge, about a third of the way 
 across, standing still with his fists doubled up, and his 
 face turned toward the opposite shore. Confronting 
 him on the bridge, and about a third of the way 
 across, so that there was some fifteen feet between 
 them, was a bear, seated on its haunches, looking at 
 the lad out of his little beads of eyes." 
 
 183
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 When this point in the narration had been greeted 
 with exclamations of astonishment by the ladies, Nei- 
 son continued, "You see, the boy and girl had done 
 more playing than berrying. They hadn't got lost, 
 hardly. You can't imagine an Ojibway kid getting 
 lost in the woods. No, they simply wandered about, 
 heedless of time, until, when they started to return, 
 they were pretty far from home. They had come near 
 the fallen tree over the stream when they were startled 
 by a bear that came across an open space toward them. 
 When Black Eagle told the story, he enlarged con- 
 siderably on the fright of the children, but it seemed to 
 me he must have worked that up as a feature of the 
 story-teller's art, for how could he know ? Gezhikway 
 may have been frightened, and the boy, too, for all that 
 I know, but what happened was this : The boy took 
 his sister's hand and ran as fast as she could go to 
 the fallen tree; then he took her up and crossed with 
 her in his arms. Arrived at the other side, he put 
 her down and looked back. There was the big beast 
 just stepping onto the bridge at the opposite end ! The 
 boy immediately stepped back on the log, calling to 
 his sister to run home as fast as she could, and strode 
 toward the bear, ready to fight him bare-handed, so as 
 to give Gezhikway time to escape. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Bear had business on the other side 
 of the stream, and he preferred crossing on the log 
 to swimming, for the current there was fearfully swift, 
 and dangerous on account of rocks that rose almost to 
 the surface. But when Mr. Bear saw that mite of 
 humanity approaching and threatening, he evidently 
 
 184
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 perceived that it was a matter for prudent reflection, 
 for he halted right where he was, about a third of 
 the way over, opened his jaws in a yawning kind of 
 way, and tried to stare the boy out of countenance. 
 That latter is my inference, girls. Not even Black 
 Eagle invented that, but I think it a fair inference, for 
 the circumstances show that in fact the bear didn't 
 have manslaughter in his heart. He simply wanted 
 to cross the river, quite likely to go to some favorite 
 blackberry bushes, and the aggressive small boy was 
 in the way. And the boy, seeing the bear halt, halted 
 too, for the purpose of his whole desperate proceed- 
 ing was to gain time, and if that could be accomplished 
 without an immediate fight, so much the better for 
 Gezhikway. 
 
 "Well, that's the tableau. A barefooted, empty- 
 handed, strong-hearted boy facing an obstinate, pig- 
 headed bear which knew just enough to perceive that 
 he couldn't cross while the human obstacle was in the 
 way. Once, the boy said afterward, the bear got on 
 his feet, licked his chops, and made as if he would 
 proceed, whereupon the boy, with the peril of his sister 
 still in mind, shook his fists, yelled something in classic 
 O jib way, and made as if he meant to charge; and the 
 bear sat down again. Did you ever hear of such stu- 
 pid obstinacy as that beast displayed ?" 
 
 "I never heard of such nerve as that boy displayed !" 
 cried Molly. 
 
 "Perfectly dreadful !" gasped Betty. 
 
 "I don't wonder they called him Strongheart," Doro- 
 thy said. 
 
 185
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "That's just it," said her brother. "Looking back at 
 it, the old people saw that the bear had no designs 
 whatever on the children. In fact, the Ojibways say 
 that a bear won't fight unless attacked. He simply 
 wants to be let alone, which was particularly the case 
 in this instance, but the boy didn't know. It was his 
 belief that if once he turned his back and ran, the 
 bear would become aggressive, pursue, and kill him, 
 and he wouldn't give the beast such a chance till he 
 was sure his little sister was at a safe distance." 
 
 "But," Maud interrupted, "you are keeping us in 
 dreadful suspense. How did it end?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Nelson, "how long did the boy 
 and the bear face each other on the bridge ?" 
 
 "Nobody knows, though probably not more than fif- 
 teen or twenty minutes, judging by the speed with 
 which Gezhikway could run to the spot where her 
 uncle met her." 
 
 "Even that must have seemed an eternity to the 
 boy," said Dorothy. 
 
 "I've wished I could know what the bear thought 
 of it," mused her brother, "but nobody ever found out 
 that. When the uncle came in sight, a grown man, 
 you know, Mr. Bear decided that it would be just as 
 well to postpone his business on the other side of the 
 river, for he got up, looked dubiously down at the 
 rushing water, and then, using his hind feet as a 
 pivot, managed to swing himself around. That done, 
 he loped away and disappeared in the bush." 
 
 "I should have thought the boy would faint away 
 when the strain was over," said Mrs. Nelson. 
 
 ISO
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Not he ! He was for chasing the bear, and would 
 have pursued him just as he was if his uncle hadn't 
 compelled him to go back to the village. They met 
 the men with guns just setting out, but when the story 
 was told, they decided to let the bear go. And from 
 that time the boy was known as Soangetaha." 
 
 The story was discussed for some minutes, until 
 Mrs. Nelson suggested that it would be hardly proper 
 to exile their guest longer. 
 
 "Frank," said Dorothy, then, "Strongheart was 
 honestly reluctant to having the story told, wasn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Oh, sure! He's the farthest removed from a 
 boaster of any man I ever knew. It was really play- 
 ing rather unfairly to do as I did, but I couldn't re- 
 sist." 
 
 "It's going to be embarrassing, then, when he comes 
 in" 
 
 "Right. We mustn't make any allusions to the inci- 
 dent. Proceed as if there had been no interruption 
 I'll tell you! Play something, Dorothy, and I'll call 
 the other fellows in to listen." 
 
 Dorothy's approval of the suggestion was mani- 
 fested in her immediate recourse to the pianoforte, and 
 her brother went to the library, where he said, "My 
 sister is going to play. Will you come in and hear her, 
 Strongheart ?" 
 
 A rippling prelude was in progress when the Indian 
 re-entered the drawing-room. Mrs. Nelson caught his 
 eye and silently intimated that she would like to have 
 him sit beside her, which he did, and then Dorothy 
 
 187
 
 STRONGEEART 
 
 began in earnest. She played that masterpiece of 
 Chopin, the Nocturne in G major, whose melody is 
 woven through such bewildering modulations that the 
 soul of the listener is taken in a whirl to the heights 
 of ecstasy, until it shrinks in holy fear from such de- 
 light, as a devotee might close his eye after he had 
 been vouchsafed a glimpse of heaven. Strongheart 
 was enthralled. Representative of a people whose na- 
 tive melodies evidence a high regard for music, he felt 
 his heart-strings tighten as the limpid phrases sped 
 past, his blood ran cold, his fingers gripped the arms 
 of his chair, his eyes sought the performer's face, which 
 he saw in profile, as if there he could discern the secret 
 of the mighty force that stirred him. 
 
 Perhaps he did discern it. His previous contact with 
 civilization had taught him language, and the super- 
 ficial things found in text-books. His eyes had seen 
 the obvious evidences of the broader life, and, through 
 books and association with his teachers, he had in- 
 ferred many of those beauties of civilization to which 
 he had alluded more than once when he argued with 
 Livingston in the wilderness. But not until now had 
 his eyes beheld the realization of his inferences. His 
 previous experience went for nothing; all this was 
 new the university, the social life, the creature com- 
 forts of the wealthy, their manner of living in which 
 art entered as an essential, familiar feature. From the 
 moment he entered the house, the Indian had been 
 observant, receptive; the unconventional habits of 
 Mrs. Nelson's home, especially unconventional when 
 given over to students, were yet studded with forms 
 
 188
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 that were novel to the Ojibway, and that he seemed 
 conversant with all the features of cultivated life was 
 due to his incessant watchfulness, ever on his guard 
 to do nothing that the others did not do, and to imitate 
 them in every detail of their conduct. 
 
 It was all novel ; better, it was all beautiful. What 
 he saw was something real, not a figment of the imag- 
 ination ; he could believe in this, believe in it and love 
 it, for it appealed to him as right, the highest develop- 
 ment of human relations. "And I am a part of it! 
 I belong in it!" was his underlying, jubilant thought. 
 Ever present, therefore, beneath his composed feat- 
 ures, was emotional excitement, exultant triumph in 
 that he had, for the time being at least, attained his 
 proper level; and on the heart glowing with this joy 
 fell the mystic influence of music. It carried him out 
 of the realm of reason, made of him a creature all feel- 
 ing, and brought him to the climax of his amazing 
 happiness. 
 
 That, then, was what he remembered most clearly 
 of this first meeting with Livingston's friends the 
 wonderful uplift of his spirit when the music sounded ; 
 and it was inevitable that he should associate that 
 exaltation with the person who was its obvious cause. 
 He went to his room that night in a daze. He could 
 not have said to his most secret thoughts what it was 
 he felt, or why it was that his profound sense of tri- 
 umph was leavened with a gentle melancholy that he 
 would not have dismissed from consciousness for all 
 the wealth of the world ; but ever across his sensitive 
 memory floated the elusive strains of the nocturne, and 
 
 189
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 always they were accompanied by a vision of the face 
 of her who sat at the instrument while they opened, 
 one after another, the windows of his soul and let in 
 the flood of light that revealed the glories of Paradise 
 and blinded him. 
 
 190
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE SONG OF ELOPEMENT 
 
 The students at Columbia were not long in discover- 
 ing qualities in Strongheart that brought him speedily 
 into prominence among them. From the point of view 
 of the Faculty he was eminently a good student, for he 
 never cut recitations or lectures, and he did a great 
 deal of supplementary reading ; but such a man could 
 not possibly be a "grind" of the traditional type, for 
 his physical nature demanded imperiously that he give 
 attention to it. Consequently he took many long 
 walks, generally at night, and alone, for he was shy 
 of seeking companionship, although no one ever 
 seemed more appreciative of it when it was accorded 
 him. 
 
 One frosty Saturday morning, the members of the 
 football eleven went for an impromptu cross-country 
 run. It happened that Strongheart was with Nelson 
 just before the men started, and Nelson invited him 
 to join them. The Indian complied gladly, and the 
 ludicrous ease with which he surpassed the whites in 
 speed and endurance made a deep impression on them. 
 There was a weak spot on the team at that time that 
 was giving Nelson, the captain, no little anxiety. One 
 of the strongest players had been incapacitated by ill- 
 
 191
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ness, and among the ambitious substitutes was none 
 who gave unqualified promise of filling the gap satis- 
 factorily. Of course it does not follow that a man is a 
 footballer because he can run across country faster 
 and further than any other, but Strongheart's demon- 
 strated athletic ability suggested to the harassed cap- 
 tain the possibility that he might be developed into one. 
 He mentioned the matter to Livingston, who, as might 
 have been expected, was cocksure that Strongheart 
 would double the efficiency of the eleven. Nelson 
 smiled at his chum's enthusiasm. 
 
 "If the Prex himself should fall by the wayside," 
 said he, "and you had the appointment of his succes- 
 sor, I believe you'd name Strongheart." 
 
 "I believe Strongheart would make a mighty good 
 shy at Prexy's job," responded Livingston, with great 
 seriousness. 
 
 Nelson laughed and sounded Strongheart himself. 
 Had he ever played football? Certainly he had; he 
 had been one of a team of Indians who had beaten all 
 comers in Canada. Good Lord ! why hadn't he spoken 
 of it ? Nobody had asked him. Would he like to play 
 on the Columbia team ? Of course, if Nelson thought 
 he would do, and the Indian's pleased expression told 
 his now familiar observer that he would be, if not the 
 most effective player, at least as devoted as any. 
 
 So Strongheart was added to the list of substitutes, 
 and it needed only a little preliminary practice to de- 
 monstrate his entire capability. With no misgivings 
 whatever, Nelson put him into play in the very next 
 game. It was a contest, as football games usually are, 
 
 192
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to try nerve as well as muscle, head as well as wind; 
 and the emergencies of the day brought the Indian to a. 
 sudden and thorough test of his fitness. He proved 
 not only a giant in mere strength, but marvelously 
 quick both in body and mind, grasping the tactics with 
 the certainty of a veteran, and never failing to show 
 that he had eyes for more moves in the game than the 
 one immediately under his control. 
 
 Great acclaim was made over Strongheart's work in 
 the game, which not only determined his permanent 
 membership in the team, but established his general 
 popularity in the student body. The young men were 
 immediately proud of "our Indian," and his acquaint- 
 ance was sought by many who theretofore had not 
 been aware of his existence. So it may be said that 
 if anything had been lacking to assure Strongheart 
 that he belonged to the college, football supplied the 
 deficiency. It rounded out his relation to the institu- 
 tion and his fellow students, and, quite aside from his 
 interest in the game considered for its own sake, there 
 was for him a special pride and satisfaction in the feel- 
 ing that he was striving for his college. Every man 
 ou the team was inspired by identically the same feel- 
 ing, but it is doubtful if any appreciated it to such a 
 degree as Strongheart. His attitude toward the Uni- 
 versity was one akin to reverence; he longed for op- 
 portunity to serve it, and the game, as he played it, 
 was ennobled by his lofty sense of devotion to his 
 Alma Mater. 
 
 So the O jib way's life fell into the pleasant routine 
 of college activities, and, for as long as the football 
 
 193
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 season lasted, there was hardly time in each twenty- 
 four hours for all he wished to do. Weeks passed 
 before he met Dorothy again. Once he caught just a 
 glimpse of her. She had come up to the University to 
 see her brother, for, although his home was in the city, 
 he and Livingston had rooms in one of the dormitories. 
 Strongheart was on his way from a lecture to his own 
 room, and was crossing Amsterdam avenue, when the 
 memory of that marvelous music he had heard on the 
 occasion of his evening at Mrs. Nelson's came over 
 him with unusual vividness. That music haunted him 
 at all hours. It came to him as a yearning aspiration 
 when he walked alone at night ; sometimes it flooded 
 his brain in the very middle of a lecture to which he 
 was giving the most strained attention ; once it swept 
 over him when he retired, hot and panting, to the 
 dressing-room after a fierce half at football. Often 
 he deliberately recalled the sensations of that exalted 
 moment, more often they recurred to him unbidden, 
 and so now, on the broad avenue, he dwelt again in 
 dreamy rapture, and noted with satisfaction the ex- 
 traordinary sharpness of outline which the memories 
 took on as evidence that the impressions of that blessed 
 time were not fading. They were as real as when he 
 heard the throbbing instrument pour forth its captivat- 
 ing strains, and saw her face alight with the joy of 
 interpretation her face, for, now as at first, the music 
 and Dorothy were inseparable. Then, just when his 
 pleasure over the distinctness of the memory was at 
 its height, he became aware that Dorothy was board- 
 ing a car within a few paces of him. He stonped 
 
 194
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 abruptly and stared at the departing car until it dis- 
 appeared over the brow of the hill, and when at length 
 he went on he noticed that his heart was beating 
 tumultuously. 
 
 If Strongheart did not feel that the fates had been 
 kind to him that day, there was a man who did, for 
 Dorothy's visit had not been prearranged, and it was 
 only by chance that Livingston went to his rooms 
 while she was there with her brother. He had not 
 been wholly without sight of her since the "family 
 gathering," as he called it, but there had been no such 
 frequency of meeting as his heart desired, especially 
 during the period when the exigencies of training com- 
 pelled the sacrifice of dinner parties and all functions 
 tending to late hours. That period was now past, and 
 it was one of Livingston's many compensations for 
 existence that he could look forward to general social 
 pleasures and, therefore, to more than occasional even- 
 ings with Dorothy. On this day the confab was brief, 
 but in the course of it Dorothy remarked that she was 
 going to spend the following Thursday afternoon at 
 the National Academy, Molly and the other girls hav- 
 ing begged her to inspect their drawings, assuring her 
 that they esteemed her judgment more highly than 
 that of their teachers. And so it happened, for surely 
 it is unnecessary to state the connection in explicit 
 terms, that early on Thursday afternoon Livingston 
 said to Strongheart, "I'm going down to the art school 
 to see my sister. Will you come along?" 
 
 "Of course," Strongheart replied; "where is the 
 school ?" 
 
 195
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Near by, on One-hundred-and-ninth Street." 
 
 "Are visitors allowed? though I don't need to ask, 
 for you would not go if they were not." 
 
 "Oh, yes. There's a good deal of informality about 
 the art school. It isn't like our lectures and demon- 
 strations, you know." 
 
 They picked up Nelson on the way and arrived 
 shortly at the Academy building, whence, even as they 
 entered its portals, came such a chattering and laugh- 
 ing as suggested anything but a school in session. 
 Livingston led the way and opened a door into a large 
 room where a score of long-aproned girls were whisk- 
 ing easels and drawing-boards out of the way with 
 extraordinary energy. About the same number of 
 young men were similarly engaged, save two who were 
 gravely executing a pas de deux in a corner to the 
 music of their own voices raised in a raucous war- 
 bling above the hubbub. Strongheart viewed the scene 
 with infinite astonishment, and even Nelson exclaimed, 
 "Great Scott ! what's this ?" 
 
 "Looks like a revolution, doesn't it?" said Living- 
 ston. 
 
 Just then, Molly, who was evidently the ringleader 
 in the strange affair, saw the visitors and came to them 
 on the run. 
 
 "What luck that you should come today !" she cried. 
 "How de do, Strongheart," and she shook hands. 
 "Isn't it immense?" 
 
 "What the mischief is it all about, Molly?" asked 
 Livingston. 
 
 "Why!" she explained, "the committee has allowed 
 196
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 us to have a treat this afternoon, and so we're going 
 to dance. A committee of the boys has gone out for 
 refreshments, and another committee," here she paused 
 and looked anxiously about the room, her eyes resting 
 with indignation on the pair dancing in the corner. 
 "Now what do you think of that?" she cried disdain- 
 fully. "Wouldn't that kill you?" 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Nelson; "what about 
 the other committee?" 
 
 "That's the other committee," she replied, point- 
 ing with dramatic scorn at the dancing pair. "I 
 appointed them to get music, and that's the way they 
 do it ! How ever can we have a ball if they don't get 
 busy ?" 
 
 "That may be their way of working themselves up 
 to the occasion," suggested Nelson; "tuning up, you 
 know." 
 
 "Is it music you want ?" cried Livingston, with sud- 
 den inspiration. "I s'pose we're in on this ? All right, 
 we'll get the music. Come on, Frank. You wait for 
 us here, Strongheart." 
 
 "Well, but," Nelson began, as Livingston seized him 
 by the arm and hustled him toward the door. 
 
 "Don't you remember," said Livingston, in answer 
 to his chum's expostulation, and added something that 
 the others did not hear. 
 
 "Oh, cert !" exclaimed Nelson, and off they went. 
 
 "Well, that's all right," said Molly. "I don't know 
 what Dick has in mind, but they'll come back with 
 music sure enough. Want to make yourself useful, 
 Strongheart ?" 
 
 197
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "By all means. Anything but standing idle when 
 there is something to do. What is your wish ?" 
 
 "We must put all these statues and busts against 
 the wall so as to make as much room as possible. 
 Let's get this old discus-thrower out of the way." 
 
 There was a number of classic ladies and gentlemen 
 in more or less dusty white who served as tireless 
 models for the students of the antique class, and they 
 were placed with their faces to the wall that there 
 might be no misapprehension as to the non-profes- 
 sional character of the subsequent proceedings. Molly 
 took hold of the discus-thrower with Strongheart, but 
 she was not allowed to do any tugging and lifting, 
 for some of the men students gave over their nonsense 
 and pushed her aside. This brought about hasty in- 
 troductions to Strongheart, whose fame as a footballer 
 had reached most of the budding geniuses of the 
 Academy, and who was therefore welcome aside from 
 the fact that an introduction by Molly Livingston 
 established him. Betty Bates and Maud Weston also 
 discovered Strongheart's presence, and came up to 
 speak to him. He fell into the spirit of the moment 
 and returned their greetings with befitting informality, 
 and without intermitting his work. 
 
 Altogether it took but a few minutes to make the 
 room as ready as it could be, and the art students had 
 assembled interestedly about the committee on refresh- 
 ments who came in, some with paper bags of biscuit 
 and cakes, some with dishes, and two with a heavy 
 can of ice-cream, all these things picked up at bakeries 
 and restaurants in the neighborhood, when there was 
 
 198
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 fresh commotion as the self-appointed committee on 
 music entered to announce their contribution to the 
 event. 
 
 "Here, all you Mike Angelos," cried Livingston, 
 "come out here and give us a hand." 
 
 The students rushed pell mell to the outer door, 
 where there was no need to give them directions what 
 to do, for there stood two grimy and bewildered Ital- 
 ians with their portable piano. Strongheart remem- 
 bered that he and his friends had passed the men in- 
 dustriously grinding out tunes midway between the 
 Academy and the University. The students immedi- 
 ately laid hands on the music machine and lifted it over 
 the threshold, rolling it then into the improvised ball- 
 room. 
 
 "Get busy, signori," commanded Nelson ; "come now, 
 prestissimo con amore allabazan!" 
 
 The Italians grinned feebly, and one of them applied 
 his doubtful, but well-paid hand to the crank. Most 
 of the future artists were already paired off and hop- 
 ping tentatively over the floor pending the music to 
 give them rhythmic uniformity, and as soon as one 
 measure had been rattled off by the strident instrument 
 the ball was in full swing. Nelson had seized Molly 
 and waltzed away with her, Livingston caught Betty 
 Bates in the same rustic-cavalier fashion, and all in the 
 room, save the Ojibway and the Italians, were in mo- 
 tion. Strongheart looked on with an almost hungry 
 smile, and presently Molly observed him. 
 
 "Why, Frank !" she exclaimed, "there's Strongheart 
 posing as a wall-flower. That won't do at all." 
 
 199
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 She immediately broke away from her partner, who 
 did not seek to detain her, and approached the Indian. 
 
 "Do you dance, Strongheart ?" she asked. 
 
 "Not this way," he replied. "I never learned." 
 
 "It's high time you did. Come on, I'll teach you," 
 and she held out her hand. 
 
 Strongheart shook his head and drew back. "Not 
 here, Miss Livingston," he pleaded. "I should be in 
 everybody's way, and really, I appreciate your kind- 
 ness, but you'd better excuse me. Perhaps I'll learn 
 before the next occasion of the kind." 
 
 Molly did not insist, for she inferred that Strong- 
 heart was fearful of making himself ridiculous, and 
 she had learned from her brother's talk about Indian 
 character that ridicule is the one thing the red man 
 fears most at the hands of the white. "Why not jump 
 in and dance in your own way ?" she said, but Strong- 
 heart merely smiled and shook his head as if he quite 
 understood that the suggestion was not to be taken 
 seriously. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said. "You must not neglect this 
 part of your education," and then she was whisked 
 away by an art student. 
 
 "Gay, isn't it?" said Nelson, taking his place by 
 Strongheart. 
 
 "Indeed it is! Does it happen often?" 
 
 "Probably not, but you never can tell what is going 
 to happen here." 
 
 "You ought not to lose your opportunity for fun, 
 Frank. Please don't stay out just because I'm here." 
 
 "I won't; but, you see, there are more men than 
 200
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 girls here, and this is their affair. I'll find another 
 partner presently." 
 
 The superfluity of men was not productive of more 
 wall-flowers, for the men who did not find girl part- 
 ners, at once took up with one another, such ill-matched 
 pairs cavorting about the room with the most extrava- 
 gant manifestations of joy in some instances, and 
 with preposterously solemn countenances in others. 
 The music machine was allowed no rest, and the scene 
 on the floor changed now and then according to the 
 measure of the tune ground out, or according to the 
 sudden fancy of the dancers. There were soon pairs 
 and groups of flushed and panting young people here 
 and there, catching their breath, but at no moment was 
 the floor wholly deserted. As the affair was im- 
 promptu, so it was unorganized for a time, and pres- 
 ently it took on a highly original form. Two young 
 men who had not found partners began to dance 
 grotesquely, squatting close to the floor, while they 
 held each other by the hands, and circling around the 
 room with every contortion of their limbs that they 
 could invent and yet not collapse. These two kept 
 their faces preternaturally sedate, and affected to be 
 utterly oblivious of observers. 
 
 "It's a dare !" cried Molly, who had been resting for 
 a bit. "Come, Maud, let's show them!" 
 
 Maud was quite ready for the ordeal. She and 
 Molly clasped hands and fell in behind the two men, 
 imitating their extraordinary antics in spite of im- 
 peding skirts, the men meanwhile adhering to their 
 affectation of blindness to their surroundings. The 
 
 201
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 room roared with laughter, and one after another the 
 others, in couples, joined the odd diversion until nearly 
 all were concerned in it. Even the Italians, taking 
 turns at the melodious crank, grinned in appreciation 
 of the frolic. 
 
 "Dick," said Strongheart, suddenly, for at the mo- 
 ment Livingston was out of the fun, save as he howled 
 and wept over it, "how long will this last?" 
 
 "Oh, till they get tired of it. Another round or two, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "I don't mean merely this grotesque exhibition, but 
 the ball." 
 
 "Oh! all the afternoon. Why?" 
 
 "Because I've got to do my share. If I can't be 
 civilized, I'll be a savage. I'm going to run to my 
 room and back. Can you find me a side room, or a 
 closet, anything to dress in when I return?" 
 
 Livingston's eyes glowed excitedly, for he guessed 
 the Indian's intent. "You bet !" he answered. "Don't 
 let the grass grow under your feet, old chap." 
 
 "I won't. Watch out for me, Dick." 
 
 He was gone like a shot, and many a man on the 
 avenue during the next few minutes turned to admire 
 the lithe runner speeding northward. At the bottom 
 of Strongheart's trunk, unseen hitherto by anybody at 
 Columbia except Livingston and Nelson, was a com- 
 plete, old-time O jib way outfit, from war bonnet to 
 drum. In the simplicity of his heart, Chief Kiwetin 
 had handed the articles to his son just before his de- 
 parture. 
 
 "You are going to a great school in the greatest city 
 202
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of the whites," said the old man, "and it may be you 
 will meet there some of the great men of the nation. 
 There may be councils to which you will be invited, 
 where it will be wise for you to appear as the repre- 
 sentative of your people, when it would be more 
 courteous to the whites to dress in the ancient way. 
 So, take them, for it is well to be prepared." 
 
 Strongheart knew better at the time. He was con- 
 scious of humiliation that his father should be so little 
 aware of the conditions of civilized life, but it was 
 not in his heart to refuse the old man, especially when 
 he knew that the gift of the war bonnet was of pro- 
 found significance; for its feathers had been honestly 
 won by Kiwetin in his younger days before the ancient 
 customs had staled in the flat atmosphere of the 
 reservation. It was a record of proud achievements 
 every feather standing for a deed approved by thfe 
 chiefs of the earlier day, and the presentation to 
 Strongheart meant that such differences as father and 
 son had had in the past were forgotten, and, further, 
 that the son was deemed worthy to wear the bonnet, 
 of the Chief. The son therefore had accepted the gift 
 with becoming gravity, while he silently regarded it 
 as a useless encumbrance. Here was unexpected op- 
 portunity to put it to use, and he hastened to avail 
 himself of it. 
 
 Follow-your-leader at the Academy had given place 
 to other diversions, and Molly was threatening to bring 
 the affair into some sort of organization ; she was hur- 
 riedly instructing an obedient youth in the manner of 
 calling off Virginia Reel, when her brother, who had 
 
 803
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 been absent, returned to the room, strode to the Ital- 
 ians and bade them rest. Before the crowd generally 
 realized that anything was about to happen, there 
 was the thundering sound of a drum from a side room, 
 and, every face having been turned that way, the door 
 opened, and an Indian chief in all the magnificent pic- 
 turesqueness of trailing bonnet, beaded vest, fringed 
 shaps and quill-decorated moccasins, stalked majestic- 
 ally in. At first most of the students supposed that 
 one of the professional models had visited them, but 
 they were quickly undeceived, for Molly cried "Strong- 
 heart!" in a tone that was heard by all. There was 
 an outburst of applause, which was quickly stilled, so 
 intent was every eye in watching the visitor. 
 
 His face as grave as if he were performing a sacred 
 ceremony, Strongheart thwacked his drum slowly, and 
 with measured tread circled the room. Then he began 
 to beat a little faster, the strokes alternating in force, 
 loud-soft, loud-soft, and his voice was heard in a wild 
 song. At the same time his whole body took on mo- 
 tion; with genuflections and bending from the hips, 
 with stepping and shuffling, with much turning and 
 bowing, he made half the circuit of the room before 
 the observers gave token of their appreciation. At 
 first, so different is the Ojibway from the dance of 
 civilization, that even these spectators were inclined to 
 see grotesqueness in it, and, of course, none was there 
 to know or dream of the vital significance that might 
 underlie the movements; but presently, to these art 
 lovers, the essential grace of the Indian's motions over- 
 came their strangeness ; what with the gorgeous color 
 
 204
 
 HIS FACE AS GRAVE AS IF HE WERE PERFORMING A SACRED CEREMONY. 
 
 Page 204
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of the garments, the brilliant headgear undulating as 
 the dancer advanced, the fringes quivering, and every 
 lithe movement suggesting restrained force, there was 
 a spectacle to arouse the enthusiasm of any artist, and 
 a hearty outburst of applause drowned the song. 
 Some of the irrepressible male contingent let out fal- 
 setto yells, whereupon at least three girls cried "hush !" 
 indignantly, fearful that their Indian friend would take 
 offense. Their fine feeling in this instance was wasted, 
 for, when Strongheart had completed the circuit of 
 the room, he himself gave vent to an ear-splitting 
 shriek with which no white man's voice could dream 
 of coping, and immediately there was laughter and 
 more applause. The Ojibway went whirling on with 
 his dance, and, as he passed the group of his particular 
 friends, he interrupted his song long enough to say 
 to Molly, "Fall in," and then proceeded as if he had 
 not spoken. 
 
 Molly took the cue at once. Imitating the Indian 
 as formerly she had imitated the grotesque antics of 
 the whites, she fell in behind him, and this was the 
 signal for a prompt and enthusiastic renewal of follow- 
 my-leader. Strongheart nodded as he saw the line 
 lengthening when he looked behind in the course of 
 his incessant turnings, and Nelson, catching his eye, 
 hastened to take his place between Molly and the In- 
 dian. 
 
 "Catch this strain, can't you?" said Strongheart, 
 singing three or four tones to "la la la la." 
 
 Nelson tried it softly, and his eyes were interroga- 
 tion points. 
 
 205
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "When I come to that, join in," said Strongheart. 
 
 It took a few trials for Nelson to get the swing of 
 the odd musical phrase, but when he grasped the fact 
 that it was designed as a choral response to the lead- 
 ing dancer's solo, he put all the power of his lungs 
 into it. The scheme ''took" with the rest at once, 
 and before Strongheart was half way around the room 
 again, the whole assemblage was in a tortuous, bend- 
 ing, shuffling, prancing line, and at regular intervals 
 all voices howled the choral response in more or less, 
 generally less, tunefulness, producing an effect that 
 would have put genuine savagery to the blush. 
 
 The line was so long that Strongheart caught up 
 with the end of it, and he led his followers in a con- 
 centric curve to avoid running down those in the 
 rear. Thus he passed several of the dancers, and thus, 
 in the course of his constant turning, he came face to 
 face with Dorothy. Aye, there she was, near the end 
 of the line, she and Livingston together, both waving 
 their arms, bending their knees, and shuffling around 
 in conscientious imitation of their leader. 
 
 Dorothy had arrived at the Academy during Strong- 
 heart's absence, and Livingston, as soon as he had 
 ushered in the Indian, had gone to her, and they had 
 stood a little apart, watching the proceedings until 
 they, too, were infected with the hilarious jollity of 
 the occasion and forthwith joined the dance. 
 
 Sight of her almost brought the dance to disaster, 
 for Strongheart halted abruptly and stopped drum- 
 ming. He felt the fire in his cheeks, and Dorothy 
 could not fail to see the flames heighten their copper 
 
 206
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 hue. Fortunately it was the moment for the choral 
 response, and such a caterwauling went up as would 
 have drowned the drum if it had been sounded, and 
 which, therefore, was not missed by any save Dor- 
 othy and Livingston who saw that the stroke was 
 omitted. 
 
 There was no saying anything to Strongheart over 
 such an uproar, but Dorothy sent a message to him, 
 nevertheless, for she perceived the emergency. In- 
 stantly she redoubled her frenzied gesturing, anc 
 smiled delightedly ; and Strongheart, reading her eyes, 
 knew that she did not disapprove, but wished him to 
 proceed. He was as quick to recover as he had been to 
 falter, and so, bending and turning, increasing the 
 speed of drum-stroke and step, he kept the dancers 
 going until they became confused in the intricacies of 
 the concentric curves, and began to stumble against 
 one another. Then Strongheart gave his drum one 
 fortissimo thwack, and shook the roof with a war- 
 whoop. 
 
 The students clapped their hands and shouted : they 
 crowded around the Indian, commenting, flattering, 
 questioning. For a half minute it would have been 
 impossible to answer questions or acknowledge com- 
 pliments, even if they could have be,en heard distinctly, 
 and in that interval Strongheart pushed his smiling 
 way through the press until he stood before Dorothy. 
 
 "Ah, Strongheart!" she exclaimed, holding out her 
 hand before he could speak, "it was splendid! I'm 
 sure we've all disgraced you by our ridiculous attempts 
 to follow your example, but we did our best, and it 
 
 207
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 has been such fun! I don't know when I've enjoyed 
 myself so much.'* 
 
 "That's right!" cried a dozen voices. 
 
 ''You see, I speak for all," said Dorothy. 
 
 "I did not realize that you were taking part in the 
 frolic when I first saw you, and I was horribly mor- 
 tified," said Strongheart, gravely, and then, with a 
 quick glance aside, he changed his manner; for the 
 moment, in the one presence, he had forgotten the very 
 existence of these others. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," 
 he added heartily. "I wanted to do my share, but 
 wasn't quite sure how you'd take it." 
 
 "Three cheers for the Indian !" cried somebody, and 
 the cheers were given with imitations of the warwhoop 
 at the end. 
 
 "But, I say, Mr. Strongheart," said a young man, 
 pushing his way to the centre, "tell us what we've 
 been doing. Surely this wasn't all nonsense to you 
 that is, it wasn't wholly impromptu, was il?" 
 
 "I won't deny the nonsense," Strongheart answered, 
 in his quietly pleased way, "nor claim that it was 
 wholly impromptu. No, what you've been doing was 
 a crude outline of the ancient Snake Dance." 
 
 There were exclamations of fresh interest, and a 
 dozen questions at once. Strongheart did his best to 
 answer, and presently one of the girls was heard to 
 say that the song was the strangest she had ever 
 heard. 
 
 "Barbaric, wasn't it ?" Strongheart suggested. 
 
 "Well, yes," the girl answered, in some embarrass- 
 ment, "it did seem so to me." 
 
 208
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "And it was," said he. "Most of our ancient cere- 
 monial songs are barbaric, but we have others, love 
 songs and so forth, that are quite different." 
 
 "Song ! song !" shouted those who had heard. 
 
 Strongheart was taken by surprise, for it had been 
 farthest from his design to lead up to this demand. 
 He made as if he would withdraw, but Molly stood in 
 his way. 
 
 "Now, Strongheart, you can't escape," she said. 
 "You've brought this on yourself by venturing single- 
 handed into the camp of the enemy, and you must take 
 the consequences. The committee on refreshments is 
 about to get busy, but you shall not be fed unless you 
 sing. Now sing for your supper !" 
 
 As ever, the Indian chose to put a good face on 
 the situation, and, with an appealing glance at his 
 especial friends, as if to apologize for what he felt 
 compelled to do against his better judgment, he 
 thwacked his drum to command silence. 
 
 "I yield to superior numbers," said he, "and if your 
 torture is equal to mine, I shall feel amply revenged. 
 This is a song of an elopement." 
 
 The giddy ones had to have their giggles at this 
 announcement, and Strongheart waited until all were 
 still. Then, quietly, without the clamor of the drum, 
 and in a smooth, rich baritone, he sang: 
 
 Beshahkah nindegobun, 
 
 Ahpetah tibikuk bezhakah, nindegobun 
 
 The students were generous with their applause. 
 Such was their good feeling that they would have 
 
 209
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 applauded the Italians, or even one of their own num- 
 ber telling a dull story; and Strongheart was wise 
 enough to recognize the undiscriminating character of 
 the demonstration. He smiled agreeably at his audi- 
 ence, and then asserted that he had earned his supper, 
 asking Molly if it were not so. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you have done more to entertain 
 us than all the rest put together. You sha'n't be im- 
 posed on any longer. Don't give them an encore, 
 Strongheart. If you do, I sha'n't listen." 
 
 The students were easily swayed. A little urging, 
 a little resistance, a good deal of clatter on the part of 
 the committee on refreshments, and the ordeal for him 
 was at an end, for attention was directed elsewhere. 
 
 One there was in the audience who did not ap- 
 plaud, her amazed silence being the highest tribute she 
 could have offered to the singer and his song. She, 
 presumably, was the only one there qualified to note 
 the perfectness of the melody as a composition, the 
 only one who could view the matter expertly. To her 
 the song spoke in its own language as an expression 
 of the spirit of beauty, and it came as a revelation, so 
 unexpected, yet so fitting to the strong-featured singer 
 and his barbaric dress. It was as if the voice of Na- 
 ture called to her and said, "I am here ; you have but 
 to seek to find me ; my beauty is here, not deeply hid- 
 den ; you have only to ask and it is yours." Music 
 real, beautiful, appealing music from an Indian ! She 
 had never heard of such a phenomenon ; and the tune, 
 as elusive and melting as it was winning, sank into her 
 heart and dwelt there as a grateful memory. 
 
 210
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 So, as the strains of a great singer of civilization 
 wrought upon the Indian's spirit, the strains of an 
 unknown, uncivilized composer wrought on the soul of 
 the white woman, and by music both were brought to 
 a new relationship, the gates of which opened and 
 admitted them, and closed, never to be reopened for 
 a backward step. 
 
 211
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THORNE'S GROUND FOR JEALOUSY 
 
 "Once more, Strongheart, please. It is so puzzling !" 
 Dorothy sat at the pianoforte; on the rack rested 
 music paper, white, save for a few notes in pencil, 
 many of which had been scratched out. In a chair 
 at the end of the keyboard sat Strongheart, bent for- 
 ward so that his elbows rested on his knees. Her 
 brow was drawn into a tight little frown as she con- 
 centrated her attention on the Ojib way's song; his 
 brow was contracted, too, but purely in unconscious 
 sympathy with her, for what he did required no effort. 
 As he sang softly, Dorothy's right hand followed 
 his tones on the instrument, striking the keys lightly, 
 now and then making an error which she corrected 
 quickly. 
 
 "It isn't the intervals!" she exclaimed, with a ring 
 of impatience in her voice, as she hurriedly wrote sev- 
 eral notes on the paper; "it's the time. I can't count 
 it. I don't know where to draw my bar lines. The 
 accent comes sometimes in one part of the measure, 
 sometimes in another. Such a puzzle !" 
 , "I suppose our music is hopelessly crude," said he, 
 and his evident regret and humility caused her to look 
 up from her work with a bright smile. 
 
 212
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "On the contrary," she cried, "I assure you I should 
 not try to notate it if it were. There's so much ugli- 
 ness in the world that I would not attempt to perpetu- 
 ate these melodies if they were not beautiful. The 
 trouble is in my crwn limitation as a musical theorist 
 I suppose I ought to perceive at once the precise 
 rhythmical structure of the tune, and I don't, that's 
 all." 
 
 "You are very good to be so patient about it," said 
 he. 
 
 "Certainly I am, if it is good to cater to my own 
 pleasure. I think the patience is wholly on your side. 
 Please sing it again." 
 
 Strongheart complied, and the search for notes and 
 their time values was resumed. Weeks had passed 
 since the frolicsome afternoon at the Academy. Be- 
 fore that event had ended through the sheer fatigue 
 of the revelers, Dorothy had found opportunity to talk 
 with Strongheart about the song which had impressed 
 her so deeply by reason of its perfect form and, as 
 it seemed to her then, its melancholy beauty. 
 
 "Is it written?" she had inquired eagerly. 
 
 "No," was his answer, "my people have no musical 
 notation. Our songs are handed down, like our tradi- 
 tions, from one generation to another by word of 
 mouth." 
 
 He told her, too, how the Ojibways are exceedingly 
 shy of singing their songs in the presence of whites, 
 fearful, as he analyzed it, of exciting the ridicule of 
 the superior race ; and how, as his people came more 
 and more in contact with civilization, they tended to 
 
 213
 
 STRONGH EART 
 
 **$ 
 
 .neglect of their own songs, picking up the music of the 
 
 whites in preference. 
 
 "In time," said he, "our songs, such as they are, will 
 be forgotten. They will disappear by reason of disuse. 
 Already on the older reservations the habit of teaching 
 the family songs to the children is beginning to be 
 ignored. Whenever an old man or woman dies, some 
 songs that existed only in their memories go out of 
 existence forever." 
 
 To Dorothy this seemed nothing short of calamitous. 
 Her love of beauty was shocked at the possibility that 
 the music of an entire people might disappear. The 
 one tune she had heard was worth saving for its own 
 sake, quite irrespective of the romantic interest attach- 
 ing to its origin ; it was a fair inference that a people 
 to whom its creation was to be attributed had created 
 others of equal aesthetic value ; and her artistic as well 
 as her altruistic impulses led her to ask Strongheart 
 if he would help her put such songs as he knew on 
 paper. He assented with unspeakable delight, less in- 
 terested, maybe, in the preservation of the songs than 
 in the opportunity the work afforded him to be with 
 her. Be that as it might, every spare afternoon and 
 evening since the frolic had found him at the Nelson 
 home, where the work went forward with unremitting 
 zeal. 
 
 On this occasion, the song which proved so puzzling 
 to Dorothy had not yet been perfectly committed to 
 paper when the butler entered and announced Mr. 
 Thorne. 
 
 Dorothy repressed the cry of vexation that spoke 
 214
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 in her heart, and, having told the servant to admit the 
 visitor, she said earnestly, "I can't drop this now, just 
 when it's almost done. If we leave it for another day, 
 we shall have to go all over it from the beginning, I'm 
 sure. Two or three times more, and I think we'll have 
 it. Do you mind ?" 
 
 "In Thome's presence? Not at all, if that is your 
 wish, Miss Nelson." 
 
 Strongheart would have put his hand in fire if she 
 had asked it; to sing in the presence of Thome, one 
 of his colleagues on the football eleven, was, spiritu- 
 ally, quite as painful, and the traditional stoicism of his 
 race was manifested in his compliance without the 
 faintest indication of his repugnance to the task she 
 set him. 
 
 So Thorne came in, the embodiment of elegance in 
 faultless evening dress, and of polished insolence in 
 his manner that is, toward Strongheart. His greet- 
 ing to Dorothy was unexceptionable, but when ha 
 turned to the Indian with a familiar "How, Strong- 
 heart," it would not have taken a supersensitive nature 
 to detect the disdain with which he secretly viewed the 
 red man. 
 
 "You are busy at something ?" said he, with a glance 
 at the pianoforte rack, for Dorothy had resumed her 
 place at the instrument. "Am I de tropf Do say so 
 if I am." 
 
 "Not at all, Mr. Thorne, if you don't mind being 
 ignored for just a few minutes. I dm trying to take 
 down one of Strongheart's native songs, and I have 
 almost succeeded. Will you excuse us?" 
 
 215
 
 "I am non-existent, Miss Nelson," saying which, 
 Thorne had the good grace to go to the further end of 
 the room and make a pretense of interesting himself 
 in a book. 
 
 Strongheart sang again, a little softer than before, 
 and Dorothy's following fingers on the keyboard were 
 proportionately louder, instinctively seeking to cover 
 his embarrassment. Perhaps she became conscious of 
 it ; at all events an unwonted flush came to her cheeks, 
 and the frown that knit her brows deepened. Her pen- 
 cil wrought with greater certainty, and presently, after 
 but one repetition of the melody, a satisfied "There !" 
 gave notice that the task was done. 
 
 "Are you preparing to present the library with a 
 collection of curiosities, Strongheart?" asked Thorne, 
 with the flippant cordiality that never succeeds in 
 masking contemptuous indifference. 
 
 Dorothy saved the Ojibway the difficulty of reply- 
 ing. "Curiosities, Mr. Thorne!" she exclqimed, "Far 
 from it! Strongheart's people have songs of rare 
 beauty, which should not be stigmatized as curiosities. 
 He has been good enough to give me the privilege of 
 putting some of them on paper." 
 
 As Thorne was not wholly an idiot, he saw his error 
 and undertook speedily to correct it. 
 
 "I had no intention of disparaging the songs, I 
 assure you," he said. "I used the word 'curiosity' 
 much as I would apply it to rare first editions, for 
 example, or ancient cut glass from Venice. I am sure 
 a white man may be pardoned for y^ot knowing the 
 beauties of Indian song." 
 
 216
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Of course, Thorne," said Strongheart. "White 
 men do not hear them. So, how could they know? 
 I took no offense." 
 
 "That's like you, Strongheart," and Thorne spoke 
 with apparent sincerity. It was so manifestly his cue 
 to play fair with the Indian in Dorothy's presence ! 
 "May I ask, then, in all seriousness, what- you intend 
 to do with them? Is it a collection for the library, or 
 a library, Miss Nelson?" 
 
 "I hadn't thought of so great a thing as that," 
 Dorothy replied, "though it ought to be done as a 
 historical record. No, I fear that my work is more for 
 my own sake. The melodies are beautiful, and while 
 I wish they might all be notated, and so preserved, I 
 am especially interested in their art value. That is, 
 I think they could be made serviceable to white singers 
 as art songs." 
 
 "You surprise me! Again without meaning the 
 least offense, it seems impossible to associate Indian 
 singing with the white man's conception of art." 
 
 "That is the natural attitude of the white," said 
 Strongheart, hastening to speak before Dorothy could 
 interpose, "for the white man knows nothing of In- 
 dian art. And it is true that in music we are centuries 
 behind the whites. Miss Nelson is generous enough 
 to find simple beauty in some of our melodies " 
 
 "And art value!" she interrupted emphatically. 
 "Let us convince him, Strongheart. There's one song, 
 Mr. Thorne, the first I heard Strongheart sing, that 
 we have put into art form, that is, it has English word* 
 which Strongheart wrote, a translation, you 
 
 217
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 stand, of the original, and an accompaniment which I 
 made myself. You shall hear it and become an apostle 
 for our cause, for you must find that the song is beau- 
 tiful, or set yourself down as deficient in musical 
 feeling." 
 
 As she spoke, she rummaged in her pile of music 
 paper and at length set on the rack a finished song. 
 Then she seated herself and glanced smilingly at 
 Strongheart. Perhaps she saw the mute appeal in his 
 eyes, perhaps she felt his shrinking from the exhibition 
 she demanded, but if so she had no mercy on him this 
 time, for she played the prelude she had composed for 
 the song, and Strongheart, as always meeting his 
 emergencies manfully, sang the Song of Elopement, the 
 English words of which he had put together at the 
 expense of no little midnight oil: 
 
 Here alone, wait I the hour; 
 
 Here alone, I wait the blessed hour, 
 
 Waiting lone, blessing the hour; 
 
 For at midnight she will join me here, 
 
 Blessed hour that brings my sweetheart near, 
 
 Long the wait, blessed the hour! 
 
 "Bravo !" cried Thorne, at the conclusion, "bravissi- 
 mo! Spendid! Wonderful! I am convinced, Miss 
 Nelson. Behold me, henceforth a prophet and pro- 
 moter of O jib way song. And let me assure you that 
 in your accompaniment you have caught the spirit of 
 the tune with remarkable success. Is it not so, Strong- 
 heart?" 
 
 218
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Yes," said the Ojibway, "the accompaniment com- 
 pletes the song. It polishes the raw material, if that 
 is a proper way to speak of music, and makes of it 
 something of which the Indian was incapable." 
 
 "Which is to say," said Dorothy, "that the Ojibway 
 melody has art value." 
 
 Thorne hastened to coincide with this view, and 
 expressed himself with such excess of admiration for 
 the song, the singer, the words, and the accompani- 
 ment, that both Strongheart and Dorothy felt ashamed 
 for him. The utter lack of sincerity beneath his mawk- 
 ish flattery was death to conversation on the subject, 
 and Dorothy turned the talk skilfully to other mat- 
 ters. This having been accomplished, Strongheart 
 considered that he had been dismissed, but when he 
 made as though he would depart, Dorothy frankly 
 begged him to stay. This was unusual. It was their 
 ordinary procedure to work either until Strongheart 
 had to attend to his regular duties, or until Dorothy 
 was fatigued; and his motion to adjourn had always 
 been regarded by her as undebatable. In this instance, 
 although her words conveyed no hint of a special 
 purpose in requiring his presence, he felt that she did 
 require it, and therefore nothing could have induced 
 him to depart. As gracefully as possible he yielded to 
 her request, and Dorothy talked vivaciously of foot- 
 ball, that being the only topic of common interest to 
 her visitors, although there was much emptiness in 
 reminiscences of a season long past, and forecasts of 
 a season long in the future. Of course there were 
 some other subjects lightly touched in the hour that 
 
 219
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 followed, but not one of the three found the time 
 agreeable, and when at length Thorne arose to go, 
 Dorothy made no effort to detain him. She was equal- 
 ly ready now to dispense with the Indian's presence, 
 but Strongheart felt just a little bewilderment at the 
 evident gratitude that shone in her eyes when she said 
 "Good night." 
 
 So the young men departed together, but their ways 
 lay in different directions, and each pursued his reflec- 
 tions alone. Thorne was in a rage. The jealousy that 
 had burst into flame when he learned that Dick Liv- 
 ingston was writing letters to Dorothy Nelson, flared 
 up again and burned now about Strongheart, as if the 
 Indian were tied to the stake and fagots piled around 
 him, which lamentable state of things Thorne devoutly 
 wished might be the case. From the time when the 
 students reassembled for the academic year, Thorne 
 had studied the conduct of Livingston and Dorothy, 
 whenever he saw them together, more faithfully than 
 he did any of his text-books, and he had come to the 
 firm conviction that, if love were there, it was as yet 
 on one side only. That Dorothy's attitude toward her 
 brother's chum was one of unstinted but unsentimental 
 friendship, was too palpable to admit of a doubt, and 
 Thorne had taken courage accordingly, an'd had car- 
 ried on his determined suit with admirable patience, 
 persuaded by Dorothy's persistent refusal to take him 
 seriously, that he must pursue a long, unaggressive 
 campaign before it would be prudent again to attempt 
 a direct appeal. And now he had found her absorbed 
 in music and poetry with Strongheart. 
 
 220
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Damn the redskin!" said Thorne, softly, as soon 
 as he had parted from Strongheart. "Is it possible 
 that he has fascinated her? Such things have hap- 
 pened often enough, and Dorothy, with her notions 
 about humanity, might be psychologically in tune for 
 just such an influence as this Indian undoubtedly ex- 
 ercises over many persons." 
 
 He viewed and reviewed this matter for many a 
 block in his walk to his destination. 
 
 "No," he concluded, after vigorous exercise had 
 cooled his passion, "she's not in love with him. She 
 wouldn't work at those songs in that way if she were. 
 It's just one of her fads. He and his tunes appeal to 
 the poetry in her, and there's nothing in her circum- 
 stances to prevent her from giving full swinr to the 
 fancy of the moment. The plain fact is, just the same, 
 that I haven't yet made any impression on her, but 
 it's not because of Strongheart. The Indian was in 
 the way this evening, but he's not to be regarded as a 
 permanent factor in the situation." 
 
 Thorne was not wholly in error. Let there be no 
 misapprehension on that score. Dorothy was not con- 
 sciously in love, either with Livingston or with Strong- 
 heart; she liked Dick with all the whole-heartedness 
 of a loyal friend ; she admired the Ojibway, and sym- 
 pathized with him in a way that was to startle him 
 when, presently, he discovered it ; but she did not love 
 him not yet.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AN EXPERIMENT THAT FAILED 
 
 The next evening when Dorothy and Strr gheart 
 worked at music together they were uninf rupted, 
 and, at the end of a long and arduous se$. : ?on, the 
 Ojibway said, "I am more and more amaze! at your 
 devotion to this matter, Miss Nelson. I really think 
 my people owe you a debt of gratitude for putting 
 their songs in permanent form." 
 
 "I have told you," she responded, "how I minister 
 to my own pleasure in this, and the work is too slight 
 to justify even a hint of gratitude. It pales into such 
 utter insignificance compared with yours. Even if I 
 did not love the melodies, why should I not give a 
 few hours to preserve those you are familiar with? 
 Such passing effort should not be mentioned by you 
 who are devoting your whole life to your people." 
 
 Well for Strongheart that the inheritance of re- 
 pression was his in full measure, for her words came 
 to him as a violent shock. Devoted to his people his 
 whole life "What !" cried his soul, "is all this atmos- 
 phere of elegance, all this acquisition of learning, all 
 this adaptation to the ways of civilization to be aban- 
 doned for the sake of those helpless, unprogressive, 
 unappreciative people who are contented in their sim- 
 
 223
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 pie wilderness life? Is the highest possible develop- 
 ment of an individual to be sacrificed to the conjec- 
 tural advancement of a handful of unaspiring people 
 a single pace or two toward the broader life? 
 
 "Must I be crushed?" cried the soul, "just as I am 
 learning what delights are mine by the power to 
 acquire them?" 
 
 And the body cried, "Must I give up creature com- 
 forts as a concession to those who do not know them, 
 or want them?" 
 
 And the heart cried, "Must I wither in the wilder- 
 ness for the lack of the light from her eyes ?" 
 
 And, biting deep while all this rebellion stormed in 
 the secret places of his being, was humiliation, bitter 
 shame, for Strongheart recognized that he had forgot- 
 ten his people. He had become one of these by whom 
 he was now surrounded ; no need that they should tell 
 him so, as often they did directly and indirectly, for 
 he knew it! Intellectually: he was in the van, if not 
 the actual leader, in all his classrooms. Physically: 
 he was the admiration and despair of the athletes. 
 Socially: he was received everywhere on even terms 
 with the white students no ! there was a distinction, 
 and it was in his favor; he was not only welcomed, 
 but made much of, flattered, petted, made to feel that 
 he was especially interesting. Eliminating the flattery 
 and the petting, he received here a recognition of his 
 worth that his own people had denied him ; and they 
 had denied him not from petty jealousy, but because 
 his was a worth they were incapable of appreciating. 
 Yet it was these people who, in the trustful simplicity 
 
 223
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 of their hearts, had sacrificed that he might go to the 
 East and learn wisdom for their protection. 
 
 The mind grasps a hundred reflections like these as 
 the eye perceives a broad landscape from a hill top. 
 Strongl*eart experienced not only bitter rebellion, and 
 bitterer shame, while Dorothy was speaking, but a 
 quaking fear lest something in his demeanor apprise 
 her that he was utterly unworthy the encomium she 
 passed upon him. How could he hope to be tolerated 
 in her presence if she should discover his weakness, 
 his selfishness? How could he continue to worship 
 her while consciously unworthy of her respect? That 
 was the vital question. All else sank into insignifi- 
 cance beside it, and instantly Strongheart's resolution 
 was taken. He would be worthy of her respect, and 
 to that end he would henceforth bear steadily in mind 
 that these halcyon days in the land of culture and 
 learning were but prepayment of the services he must 
 and would render to his helpless, trusting people. 
 
 Dorothy suspected nothing of the commotion in her 
 companion's heart, for just then she was too much 
 perturbed on her own account by what she had nerved 
 herself to say, to be as sensitive to his mood as other- 
 wise she might have been. 
 
 "I must tell you, Strongheart," she was saying, "that 
 I've been wishing for a long time that I could be of 
 some real service to you and your people. I have 
 hesitated to tell you what was in my mind, or even to 
 hint at it, for fear you might misunderstand and be 
 offended, but I'm going to be brave now and speak 
 plainly. I hope you won't be hurt?" 
 
 224
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 The rising inflection with which she finished helped 
 him to keep mastery over himself, for she seemed to 
 ask a question that required an answer. 
 
 "It is possible, I suppose, that I shall not understand 
 you," said he, huskily, "but it is not possible that 
 you could say anything that would be offensive to 
 me. If I do not understand, it will be my fault, not 
 yours." 
 
 "I have been thinking of what things cost, Strong- 
 heart," she began, looking frankly at him. "It doesn't 
 seem to matter what our ideals are, the question of 
 cost has to be considered, and I don't need to be told 
 that your people have to contrive more or less to send 
 you here. It is so, isn't it?" 
 
 "They thought it all over, Miss Nelson. Yes, it is 
 so, but there is money enough for the purpose. They 
 look on it as an investment." 
 
 "I understand, and if you could make the burden, 
 light as it may be, lighter for them, you would do it, 
 wouldn't you ? Especially if there were a way to earn 
 money and at the same time set people to thinking 
 about the Indians? It seems that it is only necessary 
 for us whites to become acquainted with an Indian to 
 undergo at once a considerable mental revolution. It 
 is a quick educational process, and the more whites 
 there are who come to a more correct perception of 
 Indian character and capacity, even though their 
 knowledge be superficial, the better it would be for the 
 Indians, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "So far as your argument is concerned, I concede its 
 soundness," said Strongheart, smiling. "I am not 
 
 225
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 averse to earning money. What is the method you 
 would suggest?" 
 
 Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. "That seems to 
 break the ice," she said. "You know how I am in- 
 terested in betterment work among the poor of the 
 city. It brings me in contact with many earnest, ad- 
 mirable people, and also, from time to time, with per- 
 sons of great wealth who are not so earnest but who 
 have their uses in the world by reason of their means. 
 It is the wealthy women I am thinking of not to ask 
 anything in charity," she hastened to add, as she 
 thought she detected a flash of repugnance in his eyes. 
 "Fashionable women," she continued, "vie with each 
 other in furnishing novel entertainments to their guests 
 at dinner parties and receptions. I think an Indian in 
 ancient costume, who could sing lovely songs and con- 
 verse intelligently, might be taken up by society women 
 and become what is sometimes called a drawing-room 
 fad. There are many persons of great distinction, 
 Strongheart, who strive for these society engagements 
 because they are so profitable when once the artist is 
 in vogue. I believe I might help you to some engage- 
 ments." 
 
 "Now let me see if I thoroughly understand," said 
 Strongheart. "You would have me wear my feathers 
 and buckskin, and sing these songs we have been 
 working over, for pay." 
 
 "Yes, that is it. You would be ostensibly a guest ; 
 in reality a paid entertainer. I feel confident it would 
 prove to be very remunerative, and it would not inter- 
 fere at all with your studies. It would be 'off' time, 
 
 226
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 such as you now give to the preservation of the mel- 
 odies." 
 
 Strongheart reflected a moment. Then said he, 
 "Miss Nelson, I do not need to think of it. You say 
 you have thought it all out, and that should be enough. 
 If you recommend it, I'll try." 
 
 "Thank you," said Dorothy, and she went on to tell 
 him of a way by which the idea could be tested. Doro- 
 thy had a friend, Mrs. Kirk, whose at-homes were 
 famous for the introduction of celebrities, especially 
 those of the musical order. Mrs. Kirk did not pay for 
 the entertainments furnished on these occasions, for, 
 from her point of view, and apparently from that of 
 many musicians, readers, and so forth, an appearance 
 at her house was compensation in itself, an advertise- 
 ment, so to speak, subsequent engagements depending 
 on success there. Dorothy would arrange for Strong- 
 heart's appearance at Mrs. Kirk's, indeed she had 
 already sounded that gracious lion-hunter, and had 
 found her eager for the prestige of being the first to 
 present a real live Indian to her guests. Dorothy did 
 not put it in just this way to Strongheart, but she did 
 assure him that both she and Mrs. Kirk would make 
 special efforts to have certain fashionable women of 
 vast wealth present at the function in the hope that 
 one or more of them would be inspired to "take up" 
 the Indian. There were Mrs. Goldback, and Mrs. 
 Van Somebody, especially ; both these laclies had been 
 known to pay extravagant fees to entertainers, and 
 each had a large following. They were on Mrs. 
 Kirk's list, and she would make certain of their pres- 
 
 227
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ence to hear Strongheart; that is, she would invite 
 him to come on the day when they were certain to call. 
 On this occasion Dorothy would play his accompani- 
 ments. She suggested that he sing the three songs to 
 which he had adapted English words, first in the O jib- 
 way manner, with the drum, and then in English, with 
 the pianoforte. If he should eventually get regular 
 engagements, it would be advisable, of course, to em- 
 ploy a professional accompanist, or arrange with one 
 of his musical fellow students to play for him. 
 
 To all of this Strongheart assented in perfect faith 
 that Dorothy knew best. What was it to sing for peo- 
 ple? He had done so under trying conditions at the 
 Academy, under more trying conditions in Thome's 
 presence. Why, not, then, to a room full of fashion- 
 able persons? If they wished to pay him, so much the 
 better, and if incidentally a few should be influenced 
 to a truer view of the Indian people, so much the 
 better still. It all seemed reasonable, the only shadow 
 being the necessity, which he did not presume to ques- 
 tion, of arranging for a strange accompanist if the 
 scheme should develop into a business matter. 
 
 There were some things in the discussion with Mrs. 
 Kirk that Dorothy did not deem it necessary to report 
 to Strongheart. 
 
 "I want to be perfectly clear about it all, my dear," 
 said Mrs. Kirk. "Your Indian sings and looks pic- 
 turesque. He doesn't give a lecture, or talk unless he's 
 spoken to. Is that so ?" 
 
 Admirably plain speech, but Dorothy, nevertheless, 
 failed to grasp its full meaning. "Surely, Mrs. Kirk," 
 
 228
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 she answered, "not only is it contrary to Indian dispo- 
 sition to volunteer remarks, but Mr. Strongheart is a 
 cultivated gentleman, and it is inconceivable that he 
 would err " 
 
 "Fudge, not to say fiddlesticks!" interrupted Mrs. 
 Kirk. "You miss the point altogether, my dear. As 
 long as your Indian did not commit any vulgar atroc- 
 ity, such as lighting a match on the piano, for example, 
 he might be the most untutored, stupidest savage you 
 please. It's the very fact that he's a cultivated gen- 
 tleman that introduces an element of danger. It won't 
 do at all for him to make people think. Come now, 
 you know our weaknesses quite as well as I do, my 
 dear. It isn't that we can't think, but that we prefer not 
 to. My friends want to be entertained, that and noth- 
 ing more. Can you guarantee your Indian for that?" 
 
 "Well," Dorothy replied dubiously, "I must confess 
 that Strongheart's songs have made me think a great 
 deal." 
 
 "Dorothy, my dear, you don't count. You would let 
 anything set you to thinking. All I ask is to be 
 assured that the Indian poses simply as an entertainer. 
 He looks interesting and queer handsome, you say? 
 Very well, that's an asset when judiciously employed 
 and he sings his songs. After that he says yea yea, 
 and nay nay, if people ask questions. He has no piece 
 to speak, no theories, no appeal " 
 
 "Oh dear, no !" cried Dorothy, "he will be the enter- 
 tainer and nothing more, but if his entertainment 
 makes people think without their being aware of it, it 
 won't do any harm, will it?" 
 
 229
 
 Mrs. Kirk looked with an expression of regretful 
 despair at her enthusiastic young friend. 
 
 "Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy," she sighed, "what a suc- 
 cess you could be in society if your exquisite beauty 
 were not alloyed with so much gray matter! I really 
 suspect you of some subtle designs against the brains 
 of my acquaintances. Will you never learn that the 
 women I associate with insist that their thinking shall 
 be done for them ? and that they positively can't afford 
 to have their feelings stirred? Touch the surface, 
 Dorothy dear, not a pin-prick deeper than the surface, 
 if you would succeed. But never mind, we'll try your 
 Indian, and I will assure Mrs. Goldback and Mrs. Van 
 Somebody on your unimpeachable authority that the 
 songs are worth while for their own sake, and that 
 the Indian is handsome, romantic, and the greatest of 
 novelties. And I'll have some other people here, some 
 from the literary and artistic set, you know, who will 
 make things comfortable for you." 
 
 It took no little manoeuvring on the part of Mrs. 
 Kirk to complete the arrangements to her liking, for 
 the previous engagements of Mrs. Goldback and Mrs. 
 Van Somebody had to be regarded; but a day was 
 found some weeks after Dorothy obtained Strong- 
 heart's consent to sing, when both the social leaders 
 could be present, and on that day Strongheart donned 
 his ancient costume, hid himself in a closed carriage, 
 and was conveyed to Mrs. Kirk's at-home. 
 
 So far as numbers were concerned the function was 
 a brilliant success, and Mrs. Kirk confessed to Doro- 
 thy that it was undoubtedly the presence of "the 
 
 230
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 chief," as she called Strongheart, that induced so many 
 to come. Certainly they all seemed interested in the 
 Indian. He was ever the center of a group wherein 
 some one person had questions to ask. What was his 
 tribe ? Where did he live ? Had he ever been in battle 
 with whites, or with other Indians? Did his people 
 still live in tents? Do they still make those beautiful 
 Navajo blankets ? What ! not make blankets ? Why ! 
 we thought oh ! the Navajos live twenty-five hundred 
 miles south of the Ob Ob what? oh! Ojibways. 
 So hard, these Indian names. Yes ? the Navajos speak 
 a different language? Why! we thought all the In- 
 dians spoke the same language. How interesting! 
 Lucy, dear, he says the decorative art characteristic of 
 his people consists in porcupine-quill work, such as 
 you see on his shoes, and on the bands around his 
 what do you call the thing you wear on your head? 
 Bonnet ! dear me ! What is this material ? Buck- 
 skin ? Please, Mr. Strongheart, pardon our ignorance, 
 but what is buckskin ? Oh ! deerskin. How interest- 
 ing. Did you make it yourself? It's simply beautiful. 
 See, Mrs. Dabster, how exquisitely these beads are 
 worked. What nice perception of color harmonies. 
 Oh, Mr. Strongheart, would you mind writing your 
 name, your real, Indian name, in my book? 
 
 The Ojibway endured it tranquilly, for, after all, 
 this was but meeting en masse the questions to which 
 he had been accustomed from most persons whom he 
 met individually. He was patient with ignorance, 
 amused at times, and altogether well content, for un- 
 derneath all the gabble there was the flattery of espe- 
 
 231
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 cial interest in him, and, more than all, this was what 
 Dorothy wished. She had planned it; therefore it 
 must be right. 
 
 As for Dorothy, her admiration for the Indian deep- 
 ened as she saw how perfectly he maintained his poise. 
 She was not a little anxious when she perceived that 
 her protege, so to call him, had become rather a cheap 
 sensation, and she wished that he could have been 
 brought forward with his songs soon after his arrival, so 
 as to make the first impression a serious one, but in that 
 matter Mrs. Kirk ruled otherwise, and Mrs. Kirk knew 
 what she was about. Strongheart was her trump card 
 and must, of course, be played last. Meantime Doro- 
 thy brought her special friends to be introduced to the 
 Ojibway, and they gave momentary relief from the 
 pressure of childish questions; and there was such 
 relief as made Strongheart's eyes glisten in the pres- 
 ence of a man who said "Bozho, neezhe" (how do you 
 do, friend) and spoke with quiet enthusiasm of a hunt- 
 ing trip he had enjoyed with an Ojibway guide in the 
 region north of Superior. 
 
 From time to time somebody played noisily, and 
 probably well, on the pianoforte; once a young girl, 
 who might have been pretty if her eyes had not told 
 too plainly of nervous overstrain, drew mournful 
 strains from a 'cello ; a German tenor sang the princi- 
 pal air in Gounod's "Faust" in Italian, and delivered 
 himself of the high C with as much force as if he 
 were on the stage of the Metropolitan, a position in 
 the operatic world he never attained ; an exquisitely 
 garbed young woman recited "The Absent-minded 
 
 232
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Beggar," and brought out its "Pye, pye, pye," with 
 intense feeling, perhaps, poor thing, because her dress 
 represented the hard pinched savings of the Winter; 
 and in spite of all these diversions, the guests lingered 
 and applauded politely. Nothing could have been a 
 clearer demonstration of the Indian's value as an 
 attraction. All were waiting to hear him. Dorothy 
 grew heartsick over the delay; her soul revolted at 
 posing Strongheart as a freak, and she regretted with 
 no little bitterness that she had not foreseen this phase 
 of the event. It was growing late. Here and there a 
 man was caught in the act of consulting his watch, 
 and when Mrs. Kirk was the detective, she pounced on 
 the abashed offender and begged effectively that he 
 postpone other matters for just a few minutes longer. 
 The Indian's songs would be such a treat! Strong- 
 heart would surely sing in a minute or two. 
 
 Why did not Mrs. Kirk bring Strongheart forward 
 when the interest was at its height ? Bless your inno- 
 cent soul ! because the real stars of the occasion had 
 not arrived. The chief event of the day awaited the 
 presence of Mrs. Goldback and Mrs. Van Somebody. 
 
 At last Mrs. Kirk murmured to Dorothy, "It's pro- 
 voking enough! They said so positively that they'd 
 come! I sha'n't be able to hold this crowd another 
 minute. Better put the chief on. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes !" Dorothy answered, "by all means. Let's 
 have it over with." 
 
 So Dorothy and Strongheart moved up to the piano- 
 forte, took possession, and one after the other, modest- 
 ly, gracefully, the three songs sweetened the air of the 
 
 233
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 drawing-room. There was then a quarter of an hour 
 that almost repaid Dorothy for the agony she had 
 suffered during the exhibition of the Ojibway. The 
 melo-lies went straight to the hearts of many, if not 
 all the people. One, a lullaby, had to be repeated at 
 once, and although the singing was the signal for a 
 general breaking up of the gathering, a great propor- 
 tion of the guests delayed their departure that they 
 might press to the pianoforte and tell Strongheart how 
 much they enjoyed the music and how surprised they 
 were; to ask if the songs were published; if they 
 could by any means get copies; if they were really, 
 indubitably Indian and not taught to the Ojibways by 
 white musicians ; and so on, a world of ignorance, but 
 pardonable, a world of genuine enthusiasm, with here 
 and there the gratifying contrast of intelligent sympa- 
 thy. Strongheart himself was elated. He could feel 
 the genuineness of the demonstration, and forgive such 
 part of it as was superficial and for the moment only. 
 Surely, Dorothy had been right in maintaining that 
 these simple melodies had a special appeal. He turned 
 to her, his face glowing, after the last guest had de- 
 parted. 
 
 "You must be tired to death," she said quickly. 
 "Aren't you glad it's over ?" 
 
 "Tired !" he echoed, "why should I be tired ? The 
 effort is nothing to a half at football. It seemed to me 
 the people were well pleased." 
 
 Before Dorothy could answer, Mrs. Kirk, who was 
 approaching, wheeled about suddenly, having heard 
 familiar voices, and began to gush in the approved 
 
 231
 
 5 T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 society manner with no less personages than Mrs 
 Goldback and Mrs. Van Somebody. 
 
 "Such a round !" sighed Mrs. Goldback. 
 
 "We were so afraid we should be too late," asserted 
 Mrs. Van Somebody. 
 
 Mrs. Kirk'understood. No need to tell her that the 
 social season was nearing its end, and that all the 
 devotees of fashion were driven to distraction by the 
 pressure of engagements that filled every day to reple- 
 tion. It was equally unnecessary for her callers to 
 confess that, in planning the round that day, they had 
 left Mrs. Kirk's function to the last, as the least im- 
 portant, and that they had so gauged their time as to 
 be quite certain that all the special features of enter- 
 tainment would have been finished before their arrival. 
 It was plain as print that these eagerly sought dames 
 had not been aroused to any interest whatever in the 
 Indian and his songs, and that in their hearts they 
 were congratulating themselves that they had escaped 
 the boredom of listening to them. So, having these 
 considerations clearly in mind, Mrs. Kirk said : 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad, for you are wonderfully fortu- 
 nate. I was on pins and needles lest you should come 
 early, for we had such a crush! And now you can 
 have the chief all to yourselves. I am sure the chief 
 won't mind singing just one of his songs again, will 
 you ?" and she smiled upon Strongheart as she ushered 
 the great ladies into the drawing-room. 
 
 "With pleasure, if you wish, Mrs. Kirk," said 
 Strongheart. 
 
 Such disappointment as the newcomers felt was 
 235
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 masked, when Strongheart was presented to them, 
 under a display of mild curiosity, and Mrs. Goldback 
 murmured "So nice," as she sank into an easy chair. 
 Perhaps it took all Mrs. Van Somebody's remaining/ 
 strength to overcome her chagrin, for she sat down 
 without a word. Dorothy was already at the piano- 
 forte, her face as inexpressive as marble. "What shall 
 it be, Strongheart?" she asked. 
 
 "Why," he answered, "the other ladies seemed to 
 like the lullaby best. Will that do?" 
 
 "Certainly," and Dorothy struck the keynote. 
 
 Strongheart did not use the drum in the lullaby, 
 but sang the O jib way words first, and followed them 
 with his version in English, thus singing the tender 
 melody twice through: 
 
 Close your bright eyes, my baby dear, 
 The spider with his web is near; 
 He'll spin it 'cross your eyes, baby dear. 
 Ayah! ayah! Go sleep, my baby, go sleep. 
 The spider with his web is here, baby dear, 
 Ayah, ah! 
 
 He raised his voice hardly above a tuneful whisper, 
 singing more softly and feelingly than Dorothy ever 
 had heard him before. It was his instinctive percep- 
 tion of the vocal proprieties of the occasion, that is, 
 the audience was small, very near, and there was 
 nothing to distract attention from the song, as gentle 
 and simple a tune as ever came from a white woman's 
 lips to soothe her child. The instant the last tone died 
 
 236
 
 away, Mrs. Goldback jumped from her chair as if she 
 were built on springs and somebody had pressed the 
 button. 
 
 "Isn't it wild and weird!" she cried with her best 
 assumption of enthusiasm. "Good-bye, Mrs. Kirk. 
 So much obliged." 
 
 "It is so extraordinary, Mrs. Kirk," said Mrs. Van 
 Somebody, "how you pick up such original novelties. 
 Each one is more unique than the others. Your friends 
 are very fortunate. Thank you so much." 
 
 In just a trifle more than three minutes from the 
 time they entered Mrs. Kirk's home, they were out of 
 it, one more social obligation discharged. 
 
 Mrs. Kirk accompanied them even to the outer door, 
 contributing her full share to the lies of the moment. 
 Viewed with the scientific calmness of a sociologist, it 
 was full of enlightenment; three fashionable women, 
 each lying to the fullest extent possible within the limit 
 of time, each knowing that the others were lying, and 
 each conscious that the others knew that she was lying. 
 As we are not sociologists, let us flee from such un- 
 pleasant associations. 
 
 Strongheart stood as if rooted to the floor, gazing 
 after the departing visitors, so startled from his native 
 poise that his eyes fairly blazed with amazement. 
 
 "'Wild and weird!'" he repeated softly. "Good 
 God!" 
 
 Recollecting himself suddenly, with a pang of re- 
 morse he turned to Dorothy. "I beg your pardon, 
 Miss Nelson," said he, and found fresh cause for 
 amazement when he saw her, for she was crying. 
 
 237
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 She had risen, but was still before the keyboard, her 
 face turned from him, her handkerchief pressed to her 
 eyes. At the sound of his voice, she looked around 
 quickly, speaking through her tears. 
 
 "Don't! don't 1" she stammered; "how can you ever 
 forgive me for subjecting you to such a humiliating 
 experience ?" 
 
 Then she turned her head away again and sought 
 to control herself. Strongheart's amazement and un- 
 speakable disgust at the shallowness of the society 
 women were swept away in a torrent of sympathy for 
 Dorothy, and keen appreciation of her emotion. Of 
 course she must suffer. If he, a man of the wilder- 
 ness, felt cut to the quick by the insolent rejection of 
 the finest he had to offer, how tenfold worse must she 
 feel, she, a woman of the most delicate cultivation, 
 who had been so ready to recognize the beauty of the 
 Indian art, and so eager to bring it to the attention of 
 others of her people. He understood her at that mo- 
 ment as thoroughly as Mrs. Goldback had misunder- 
 stood his music, and his heart swelled with a yearning 
 to comfort that was almost irresistible. His arms 
 strained with the impulse to enfold her, but something 
 of which he was not fully aware held him motionless ; 
 it might have been the reverence for womanhood 
 which every honest man fears to profane ; it might 
 have been this, mingled with his own personal wor- 
 ship of this particular woman, which bade him wait 
 iest the idol repudiate his tribute. And then Mrs. 
 Kirk was heard returning. 
 
 She found Dorothy gathering up the musk, and 
 238
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Strongheart at some distance from her, looking out of 
 a window. 
 
 "Well," said the hostess, "we made them hear some- 
 thing, anywa>, but I'm afraid we must confess to 
 failure, Dorothy, my dear." 
 
 "Failure!" exclaimed Dorothy, hotly. "Did you 
 hear what they said ?" 
 
 "Something deliciously absurd, wasn't it? Oh, 
 yes ! 'Wild and weird/ Could anything be more 
 ridiculous !" 
 
 "Nothing could be more insulting to the singer and 
 his songs," said Dorothy. 
 
 "Why! my dear, are you taking them seriously? 
 It won't do, my dear. Don't you see, they knew they 
 were coming to hear Indian songs, and in talking it 
 over they had said to each other that the songs would 
 be of the wild and weird variety as a matter of course. 
 They couldn't imagine any other kind of Indian music, 
 I couldn't myself, until I'd heard it ; and, having heard 
 and not comprehended a note, they had to say what 
 had been their preconception of it, don't you see? 
 They couldn't say anything else. It's simply funny. 
 Isn't it, Mr. Strongheart?" 
 
 Strongheart slowly turned from the window. His 
 face was lighted by the grave smile so characteristic 
 of him, and he looked first at Dorothy, waiting a per- 
 ceptible moment before he replied, "I think it is the 
 best way to regard the episode, Mrs. Kirk. I am 
 sorry only for Miss Nelson, who had made the songs 
 possible for white people, and whose work on them 
 deserved unqualified success. I think we should dwell 
 
 239
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 OQ the fact that your guests generally were pleased." 
 
 "That's right," said Mrs. Kirk. 
 
 "Strongheart," said Dorothy, facing him in her 
 frankest way, "would you care to repeat the experi- 
 ment?" 
 
 "Miss Nelson," he answered, "I would not." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Kirk, after both had expressed 
 their appreciation of the opportunity to try the experi- 
 ment in her home, "I don't blame you for not caring 
 to repeat it It must be distressing to find that one 
 has cast pearls before swine." 
 
 240
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 LIVINGSTON'S LOSING BATTLE 
 
 Spring had not come when our young people began 
 to plan the Summer vacation. It was Dorothy who 
 made the suggestion that served as a text for all their 
 discussions. Her brother had brought Strongheart 
 home to dinner, and the young men remained through 
 the evening. On that occasion the jO jib way talked 
 more freely of the life of his people than at any time 
 during their acquaintance with him. It was not only 
 that he had overcome the first restraints that make all 
 Indians shy among strangers, but that the influence 
 of Dorothy's idealization of his purpose was still strong 
 upon him, so that, his thoughts dwelling much in the 
 wilderness, and on the reservation, and the problems 
 he must try to solve, he gave ready expression to them, 
 and with unconscious eloquence presented a vivid pic- 
 ture of forest life. 
 
 "I should think," Dorothy said, toward the end of 
 the conversation, "that it would be a real sacrifice for 
 you to spend so much time in the city." 
 
 Strongheart looked gravely at her for a moment, as 
 he often did, before replying. "Do I not seem like a 
 civilized man?" he asked, presently, and Dorothy was 
 too astonished to reply at once. 
 
 241
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Her brother laughed. "The general impression fe," 
 said he, "that Strongheart is the most civilized student 
 at Columbia." 
 
 "Surely," said Mrs. Nelson, "nobody ever thinks of 
 Mr. Strongheart in any other way. 
 
 "I knew that to be so," said Strongheart. "I only 
 asked the question in order to make my answer to 
 Miss Nelson perfectly clear. Yes, there are times 
 when life in the city does seem a sacrifice. You know 
 me pretty well, I think. I glory in my civilization. 
 I have been marvelously happy in college. Perhaps 
 because I had given up all hope of further study, I 
 really have been eager for the book work, and I think 
 I have appreciated it. It gives me profound satisfac- 
 tion merely to look at the buildings of the University. 
 I believe that I belong there, that I belong in the 
 civilized life, and yet there are times when I have an 
 overwhelming heart-sickness for the woods, when here 
 I feel shut in. I can't set my course by a star, or a 
 hilltop, and follow it in my own way, but I must go 
 in a straight line to the end of a row of buildings, and 
 then follow another row of buildings at right angles 
 to the first. Even when there are few buildings I 
 must keep to the beaten trail. I do long often for 
 those paths in the wilderness that only an Indian can 
 see and keep to. But, with all that, Miss Nelson, there 
 is no sacrifice. The advantages and pleasures counter- 
 balance the occasional melancholy." 
 
 Frank stayed at home that night, and, after Strong- 
 heart had gone, Dorothy said, "How I should like to 
 see the land he speaks of with such deep feeling " 
 
 242
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't you ?" asked her brother. 
 
 "I have often wondered why I shouldn't," Dorothy 
 replied. "Dick's letters last Summer interested me 
 greatly in the country and its people. Since we have 
 known Strongheart, the desire to see the places he 
 tells us about has grown greater. Why shouldn't we 
 all go to the woods for a short time next Summer? 
 If mamma could put up with tent life for two or three 
 weeks " 
 
 "Oh, Dorothy!" exclaimed Mrs. Nelson, properly 
 aghast, "would you make a savage of your mother?" 
 
 "Not on your life !" cried the son. "You can live in 
 a tent just as luxuriously as at home. You've no idea 
 of the contrivances that may be taken into the woods 
 to make the most exquisite tenderfoot comfortable. 
 There are bed bags that you blow up before using, and 
 that are better than any feathers, or expensive mat- 
 tresses " and with the cheerful exaggeration of 
 wholesome youth, he proceeded to show how Mrs. 
 Nelson could live in the Canadian wilds without miss- 
 ing the creature comforts to which she was accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 Mrs. Nelson laughed with good-humored incredulity 
 at first, but she, too, had been deeply interested in 
 Strongheart and his country, and by degrees she came 
 from smiling assertion that the idea was impossible, to 
 a promise to consider it. That meant that the battle 
 was won, and by then Dick and Molly Livingston were 
 not only cognizant of the undertaking, but a vital part 
 of it. Plans were made with the utmost enthusiasm 
 to engage Steve Winterton as chief guide, and pro- 
 
 243
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 ceed from the Soo directly to the Ojibway Summer 
 village which should be their point of departure for 
 such short excursions as they might find agreeable 
 when on the spot. 
 
 The snow was hardly off the ground when Winter- 
 ton's illiterate acceptance of the contract came and 
 was made the occasion of a general council at Mrs. 
 Nelson's. There was really nothing to talk over that 
 had not been thoroughly threshed out at previous 
 councils, but even if Livingston's degree had been en- 
 dangered, he could not have resisted the temptation 
 to go over and over the plans for the Summer. This 
 council, however, opened the way for a crisis not only 
 in the plans for the Summer, but in the shaping of 
 Livingston's future. 
 
 "Dick," said Molly, suddenly, "have you written to 
 papa about this ?" 
 
 "Hadn't thought of it," he replied; "have you?" 
 
 "Of course not. I thought that was up to you." 
 
 "Perhaps 'twas. I'm not sure. Anyhow, we might 
 as well let the governor know what's doing." 
 
 Livingston dutifully wrote to his father the very 
 same night, fearful that if he postponed it he would 
 forget the matter altogether until it was time to start 
 for the Soo. By return mail, promptness enhanced 
 by a special delivery stamp, he received a reply from 
 Livingston senior, of which the following is an ex- 
 tract : 
 
 "I had been quietly planning for a long time to give 
 you and Molly a treat this Summer, and I shall be 
 disappointed if you have committed yourselves to the 
 
 244
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 woods so deeply that you cannot honorably draw out. 
 By such contriving as a college student cannot possi- 
 bly imagine, I have got my affairs in shape where I 
 can venture to leave them for three months, and it 
 was my dream to take my children to Europe and see 
 the Old World through their eyes. It was my inten- 
 tion to let you make the itinerary absolutely according, 
 to your desires, providing only that it could be covered 
 in the time limit, and I have gone so far as to book 
 our passage by steamer sailing June 20. That, of 
 course, can be canceled if necessary, and I leave the 
 decision wholly with you, but I suggest that, while 
 both Europe and the woods will endure for some years 
 longer, the opportunity for me to revisit the old coun- 
 tries with my children while they are still impression- 
 able is hardly likely to occur again, for you are not 
 only growing older and more sophisticated, but I am 
 getting more and more immersed in business with 
 every year. I ask only that you let me know your 
 final decision at as early a moment as possible." 
 
 Livingston took this letter to his sister, and said 
 nothing until, having read it, she looked up inquir- 
 ingly, with a suspicion of moisture in her eyes. 
 
 "Dear old governor," said he, "then of course 
 that settles it, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Of course," she replied at once. "We're awfully 
 selfish, Dick." 
 
 "I know it, and yet the governor has been most 
 inconsiderate in making his plans without consulting 
 us, hasn't he, now?" 
 
 Molly fixed him with a solemn stare and responded, 
 245
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "He's old enough to know a lot better, especially in 
 view of the example we set him." 
 
 Then they both laughed, Dick, it must be said, a 
 little ruefully. "I don't mind confessing to you pri- 
 vately, Molly," said he, "that if I were to choose for 
 my own pleasure, I'd rather three days in the woods 
 than a cycle of the effete monarchies, but I take it 
 that the governor has set his heart on this excursion, 
 foolish old boy! and that we should be downright 
 mean if we hesitated, or showed anything but the most 
 extravagant glee over it." 
 
 "Sure!" cried his sister; "he's the best papa in the 
 world, and I'm going to write him of my belated dis- 
 covery to that effect. You must write, too, Dick. 
 Don't fail, now !" 
 
 "Never fear. I'll write him a letter that'll make 
 his poor old heart sit up and take notice. But we 
 must let Frank and Dorothy know at once." 
 
 "Certainly, but it needn't make a bit of difference 
 with them. They must go on with their plans just the 
 same." 
 
 "Of course," said Dick, with a little gasp that his 
 sister did not interpret correctly. Until that moment 
 it had not occurred to him that the change in plans 
 would put thousands of miles between him and Doro- 
 thy for the entire Summer. That prospect set a 
 sudden weight on his heart, and, although it gave not 
 an instant's check to his decision to abide cheerfully 
 by his father's arrangements, it did more than de- 
 press him for the moment. As the weeks passed, and 
 the time of separation drew near, he found that it 
 
 246
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 was essential to his peace of mind that he should have 
 an understanding with Dorothy. 
 
 There was no shadow of jealous fear upon him. 
 Thome's infatuation for Dorothy was as obvious to 
 him as it was to the rest of the eleven, and others of 
 his friends ; but Thorne was by no means alone in 
 his adoration of Dorothy, and it was sufficiently clear 
 to Livingston that Dorothy favored none so much as 
 himself to make him wholly at ease so far as rivals 
 were concerned. Indeed, it may not be too much to 
 assert that the generosity of his nature would have 
 enabled him to see another succeed in her esteem with 
 tranquil resignation to his own disappointment, and 
 with no bitterness toward either her or the victor. 
 
 It never occurred to him even in his most fantastic 
 dreams that Strongheart could be a rival, for, although 
 the Ojibway had at times betrayed emotion after the 
 manner of the white race, he was wholly successful in 
 repressing manifestation of what was deepest in his 
 heart whenever he chose to repress it, and his abject 
 worship of Dorothy was one of the things he chose to 
 hide. Moreover, with all the respect and affection 
 which Livingston had for Strongheart, with all his 
 supposably unqualified acceptation of him as an equal, 
 there remained subconsciously and unconsciously a 
 knowledge not a feeling, but a knowledge that he 
 was nevertheless different, a man of an alien race. As 
 yet no circumstances had arisen to call this knowledge 
 into activity, and while it slumbered its effect was 
 negative only, befogging Livingston's mind as to the 
 truth and stilling him with a false sense of security. 
 
 247
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 No, the only uneasiness in the heart of Dick Living- 
 ston as Summer drew near was due wholly to his own 
 condition without reference to so much as the exist- 
 ence of others. He loved ; with every month* he loved 
 more deeply ; Dorothy was to go one way, he another ; 
 therefore, such is the logic of love, although presently 
 each would turn about and approach the other, he 
 must speak to her as he had never yet spoken. 
 
 The Nelsons, after a brief season of disappointment 
 over the news that Dick and Molly could not go to the 
 wilderness with them, continued to plan for their brief 
 visit to the land of the Ojibways ; and Dick, when his 
 memory dwelt on the evening when he made the an- 
 nouncement, glowed warm with hope, for the regret in 
 Dorothy's eyes and manner had been unmistakable. 
 Indeed, it was she who cried, "Then let's not go! 
 Let's postpone it till next summer." 
 
 Livingston promptly and emphatically opposed this' 
 suggestion. He pointed out that the proper time was 
 now, when her interest was keen; that all arrange- 
 ments were made ; that he and Molly would be unhappy 
 if their absence should cause such a radical change 
 of programme. 
 
 "But, Dick," Dorothy protested, "it was your let- 
 ters that aroused my interest, and I wanted to see the 
 country with you." 
 
 "Thanks," he responded, bowing low in mock solem- 
 nity in order to mask his delight, "but Frank was there 
 when the letters were written, and, if you want real- 
 ism, you can take them with you and put the sheets 
 of paper on the respective spots they describe. There 
 
 248
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 were so many I think they'd cover pretty much the 
 whole country/' 
 
 Frank, of course, insisted on the original plan, and 
 Mrs. Nelson, now that her mind was made up for it, 
 thought it would better not be abandoned, and so, 
 presently, Dorothy ceased her objections. 
 
 Strongheart, who had been inexpressibly delighted 
 with the general proposition, was deeply grieved at the 
 necessity for the withdrawal of Livingston and his sis- 
 ter. There, too, was an instance of deep love without 
 a trace of jealous fear. With no pretense of exalting 
 the Ojib way's nature and denying him the capacity for 
 jealousy, it is well to point out that when he came to 
 the East he had to take people as he found them ; and, 
 finding a pleasant, wholesome degree of intimacy be- 
 tween the Livingstons and the Nelsons, it never 
 occurred to him that there was a special affection on 
 the part of Dick for Dorothy. It would have been as 
 reasonable for him to perceive a special feeling on the 
 part of Frank for Molly, in which case he would have 
 been in error; and, to his eyes, the conduct of Dick 
 and Dorothy, when they were together, was precisely 
 on a level with that of Frank and Molly. 
 
 So, then, love was playing his cruel game of cross 
 purposes with some of these young people, and it was 
 a game that could not go on much longer in the dark. 
 Livingston suffered much tribulation in spirit before 
 he could bring himself to speak to Dorothy, for when 
 he drew near the subject he shrank from it as one 
 unworthy of the blessedness for which he must appeal. 
 There were moments when, even to his ardent heart, 
 
 249
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 it seemed almost unholy to risk the sweetness of com- 
 radeship by presuming to seek relations of a more 
 intimate nature. But to him who loves there is no 
 logic in aught save confession, and one day in June 
 Dick laid bare his soul, and Dorothy stood grieving 
 at what she saw there. Her beautiful eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "Oh! I am so sorry!" she cried, and impulsively 
 she clasped his hand. 
 
 Dick thrilled at her touch, while yet his heart sank 
 at her words. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he stammered. "Am I too 
 late ? Should I have spoken sooner ?" 
 
 "No! no!" she replied hurriedly. "Believe me it 
 is not that, but, oh Dick! we have been such good 
 friends I" 
 
 "Well," said he, bewildered, "it doesn't follow that 
 we're going to be enemies because I love you, does it ? 
 I had an idea that lovers were sort of sublimated, or 
 double-extra-concentrated friends, or something of 
 that kind, you know. You couldn't expect me to love 
 you if we hadn't been friends, could you? I don't 
 understand you, Dorothy. Can't lovers be friends?" 
 
 "Lovers, yes, I think so," she replied faintly, and, 
 dropping his hand, she turned her head aside. 
 
 "And that means," said he, after a moment of pain- 
 ful silence, "that you do not love me, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Not in the way you wish, Dick. Oh ! why couldn't 
 we have remained just friends ?" 
 
 Dick's heart recoiled in fear as the dreadful light 
 suddenly dissipated his misunderstanding. He could 
 
 250
 
 5 T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 not let this be the end of it all, he could not endure 
 the thought of losing her altogether. Not count Doro- 
 thy as his friend? The dull, mystifying pain of her 
 refusal became acute anguish. 
 
 "Dorothy !" he cried, "I'd take it back if I could. I 
 can't, for of course I meant it, but don't throw me 
 over! don't banish me " 
 
 He checked himself, for she was looking at him in 
 sad surprise. "How could I throw you over, Dick?" 
 she asked. "It would be impossible for me to wish to 
 banish you. Oh ! how hard it is for a man and a 
 woman to understand one another when they do not 
 love equally and in the same way! Don't you see, 
 Dick, that we can't be on just the same terms as be- 
 fore? That tranquil, happy friendship is destroyed." 
 Her voice shook, and she paused to collect herself. 
 
 "There's something wrong, then," said he, "for I 
 have been in love with you for more than a year, 
 I was in love with you when I wrote those letters you 
 seem to think so much of " 
 
 "But I didn't know it," she interrupted, "and now 
 I do. Whatever you wrote, or said, always appealed 
 to me as the expression of a sincere friend, and not 
 as that of a " 
 
 "Lover!" he blurted, as she hesitated. "Is it pos- 
 sible you can object to receiving letters from one who 
 loves you so much that he doesn't know how to find 
 words to express it? Blame it, Dorothy, I can't de- 
 scend to stock phrases, and I'm no poet to invent new 
 ones." 
 
 "You don't need to, Dick. I understand." 
 251
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Well, don't you want love of that kind?" 
 
 "I I don't know, Dick." 
 
 "You've got it anyhow, Dorothy, and you can't kill 
 it, or diminish it. There's just one no, two things 
 you can do with it. Tell me, do you mean you simply 
 can't love me ?" 
 
 "I wish I could, Dick! Cari you understand that I 
 love you so much that I wish I didn't have to pain 
 you" 
 
 "Stop at that, Dorothy ! Don't say another word " 
 
 "But you misunderstand " 
 
 "No, I don't ! You think well enough of me to wish 
 you could think more of me. I understand you per- 
 fectly, you see. Now I was going to say there are 
 two things you can do with my love. You can accept 
 it, or silence it. Dorothy, don't you think that some 
 time you might find you could accept it ?" 
 
 There was a world of sadness in her eyes as she 
 looked straight at him and answered, "I don't know, 
 Dick. I'm afraid " 
 
 He would not let her finish. "Then," he broke in, 
 "silence me, my love, I mean. It can wait and hope, 
 for you can't prevent that. If I can't have your love, 
 I want your friendship. I must have it. You must 
 let me write to you this Summer just as I did last 
 Summer. I promise the same kind of letters. I won't 
 harp on my one song, but I'll keep in touch with you. 
 Please, Dorothy ! Help me so much. Write to me as 
 before, and let me write to you." 
 
 "I am afraid it would be a mistake," she faltered. 
 "I shall always know now what is beneath the lines." 
 
 252
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Let it be so," he insisted. "I will be frank with 
 you and confess that I shall still hope to win. Come ! 
 it's an open field, isn't it ? It's not against the law for 
 a fellow to love a beautiful girl who's been his best 
 friend. If you didn't love me at all, you'd turn me 
 down flat. So, you see, I've got a fair start, and you 
 can't be so unfair as to trip me at this stage of the 
 race." 
 
 Thus Livingston fought out his losing battle, and 
 won; that is, when at last their discussion ended, 
 Dorothy had been persuaded that their relations could 
 remain as before the revelation was made. He would 
 write to her, and she to him, and Dorothy would not 
 steel her heart against him. So much she promised, 
 and this was so much better than the end had threat- 
 ened to be, that Dick was almost happy as he strode 
 back to his quarters at Columbia. Leaden disappoint- 
 ment still lay on his heart ; but beneath it was throb- 
 bing hope that in time he could lift it and cast it 
 aside.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 STRONGHEART'S DREAMS 
 
 Strange, waking dreams visited Strongheart during 
 those pleasant Spring days. Gravely he considered 
 them, turned them about and found them fair on all 
 sides, weighed them and found them not wholly un- 
 substantial. His relations with Dorothy Nelson were 
 about to be reversed. Now she was to be the guest, 
 he the host. There were phases of life in the forest 
 with which she was unfamiliar, and he would be the 
 guide and teacher. In a measure she would be de- 
 pendent on him and, instead of an occasional meeting 
 at her house, there would be daily, close companion- 
 ship. It would be his privilege to paddle her about 
 the lakes in a bark canoe, to help her over the forest 
 trails, to superintend the placing and arrangement of 
 her dwelling, to make her wishes known to his people, 
 all of whom would be for the time being her servants. 
 
 Such considerations, natural, inevitable, were the 
 basis of the dreams which concerned the time when 
 Dorothy's visit should have become a thing of the past. 
 She would talk with his father, with Black Eagle, with 
 Gezhikway; she would see his people and their cir- 
 cumstances with her own eyes and not through such 
 information as he had tried to impart to her by color- 
 
 254
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 less words. The problems of Indian life would be- 
 come concrete, not inferential deductions. What he, 
 as the future leader of his people, had to contend with, 
 would be as a plain fact before her, and therefore she 
 could be, what she had expressed the wish to be, 
 really helpful. So much was more substantial than a 
 dream of the night ; it rested on certainties. Why not 
 something greater, sweeter ? Why should he regard it 
 as impossible that she might see how she could multi- 
 ply her usefulness immeasurably by becoming a per- 
 sonal part of the force working for the preservation 
 and uplifting of the Ojibway people? 
 
 Slowly and gravely as he set this dream before him, 
 logically as he assured himself that it might be real- 
 ized, he yet drew away from it with quaking appre- 
 hension. Was he sure of her? As a character, yes! 
 but as a woman there was room for reasonable doubt. 
 Was it really thinkable that one nurtured in luxury, 
 whose mind and body were of the tender city growth, 
 could go to the wilderness and thrive in such radically 
 different conditions? 
 
 It was easy to conceive that Dorothy's imagination 
 would be equal to undertaking humanitarian work in 
 the forest; would her physique and her enthusiasm 
 sustain her in the hard reality? Strongheart thought 
 that this was questionable. Without the slightest dis- 
 paragement of her, he analyzed her work among the 
 poor of the city. She gave a generous proportion of 
 time and energy to it, and she visited the poor in their 
 meagre, if not squalid quarters, but she did not live 
 with them, not for as much as one whole day at a 
 
 255
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 time. She always had the relief, if relief it was, of 
 a return to the comforts and niceties of her own 
 home. 
 
 In other words, Dorothy's character had not been 
 put to the full test. How would she endure the 
 deprivation of familiar luxuries? How would she do 
 without music? that art in which she was gifted, in 
 which her attainments, to Strongheart's perceptions, 
 were great, and that art which, more than any other, 
 depends upon the conditions found where population 
 is compact and considerably advanced in culture. 
 
 Sorry questions, these, and yet the day dream would 
 not vanish into thin air along with the fantasies of 
 night, for Strongheart's love was a form of faith, and 
 this assured him that Dorothy Nelson would be equal 
 to any course which her conscience and judgment told 
 her was right. How, then, when she came to see the 
 Ojibways in their native surroundings? Would she 
 believe them worth the effort, the sacrifice necessary 
 to lead them upward? The Indian's heart so quaked 
 with fear of the answer to this question that he almost 
 dreaded Dorothy's visit. It might prove to be a dis- 
 illusionment for her. 
 
 Chief Kiwetin and several families had already left 
 the reservation for the Summer village when Strong- 
 heart arrived home. He therefore went straight on 
 and joined his father. They met with a cordial hand- 
 shake, but few words. The old man made inquiry at 
 once about Nelson and Livingston, and expressed great 
 pleasure at the news that Nelson would soon come for 
 a visit 
 
 256
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "I am sorry Livingston isn't coming, too," saui the 
 Chief. "He's a fine young man. I like him." 
 
 "Nelson's mother and sister are coming," Strong- 
 heart added. "I think you will like them, too. They 
 are good women." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, "they will be welcome." 
 
 The Chief gave way to a fit of violent coughing, and 
 Strongheart looked an anxious inquiry. 
 
 "It's the houses, Soangetaha," said Kiwetin. "I 
 don't believe the Indian can live in a house. Every 
 Winter at the reservation we catch colds, and yet our 
 houses are tight, and we have just such stoves as the 
 white men use. The white men must be different, 
 somehow. I am much better in the wigwam, as I 
 always was, and after I have been here a few days the 
 cough will go away." 
 
 The son hoped so. He had never known his father 
 to carry a Winter cold so far into the Summer, but 
 there was nothing to do about it, and therefore nothing 
 to say. 
 
 A week of restless activity passed. Strongheart 
 again attached the fumiferous Mukwa to himself as a 
 servant in all but title, and together they prepared the 
 ground for the Nelsons' tents. They brought great 
 piles of fresh balsam boughs to make the air sweet 
 within, and to be used in the beds if the ladies should 
 eventually decide to discard the contrivances of civ- 
 ilization which Mrs. Nelson insisted should be brought 
 with them; they prepared a roll of birch bark for 
 kindling, and they heaped up enough drift wood and 
 fresh cut sticks to furnish campfires all Summer long ; 
 
 257
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 they fashioned cups and bowls of bark, prepared cords 
 of tamarack, built a special fireplace, with smooth 
 stones ready for cooking a meal in the ancient fashion, 
 and set up tripods; they dug trenches to prevent any 
 possible flooding of the ground reserved for tents. 
 Strongheart contrived every day to find new things to 
 do in the way of preparing for his guests, else he 
 would have had to rush over the trails, or paddle on 
 the lake, to still the tumult of anticipation that shook 
 his soul. 
 
 Early one afternoon a number of canoes emerged 
 from the shadow of islands in mid-lake, and Strong- 
 heart knew that the hour of one of his life trials was 
 at hand. Already, according to the plans carefully 
 made by himself and Nelson, she must have been in 
 camp three nights on the way from the Soo. By so 
 much she had become accustomed to roughing it, or 
 possibly disgusted with it, but she had yet to see his 
 people at home and realize how close to the soil they 
 were. 
 
 The whole village gathered at the shore to greet 
 the visitors. Kiwetin, Black Eagle, and other elderly 
 men stood like statues, the squaws sat on the ground, 
 the children raced up and down the strand and 
 splashed the water with their bare feet. Strongheart 
 was a little apart from the men, his face as immobile 
 as any, but his soul gazing outward until his eyes 
 ached. He recognized Winterton first. There was 
 one passenger in his canoe, Mrs. Nelson, undoubtedly. 
 Next in the line was a canoe loaded with baggage, 
 propelled manifestly by Indians. These two canoes 
 
 258
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 partially concealed two others until all were clear of 
 the islands, and then the heart of the watching Indian 
 leaped, for he saw a canoe in which the bow paddle 
 was handled by a woman ! It could be none other than 
 Dorothy, quite regardless of the fact that, even at a 
 distance, there was evidence to trained eyes that the 
 paddler was not wholly familiar with her task. Mani- 
 festly the last canoe, whose paddlers moved with the 
 regularity of a machine and the grace of birds in 
 flight, was held close to the one in which the woman 
 sat to render quick aid if any were needed. The lake 
 was still, the sky cloudless; it seemed to Strongheart 
 that earth and heaven, air and water, had entered into 
 friendly conspiracy to make her journey safe and 
 pleasant. That was her brother in the stern of her 
 canoe. They had come quite three miles from their 
 stopping place for dinner, and still she at the bow 
 plied her paddle with vigor and, despite inexperience, 
 with certainty that robbed the spectacle of any element 
 of risk. 
 
 Strongheart could have held his peace; it would 
 have been the most natural thing to do, although the 
 Indian, at the approach of familiar visitors, is often 
 extravagantly vociferous in his manifestations of 
 pleasure; but these were people of civilization, and 
 he was a civilized man. He cast aside a minute frac- 
 tion of his restraint, waved his hat, and let go his voice 
 in a falsetto yell that sped across the gleaming water 
 and apprised the travelers that they were recognized. 
 Up went Dorothy's paddle in air by way of salute, and 
 a musical cry, sweeter than the song of any bird in 
 
 269
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Ojibway land, came floating back. Then her paddle 
 dug into the water again, and the flotilla came steadily 
 onward. 
 
 "Hello, Strongheart !" shouted Nelson, when the 
 canoes were near the landing place. 
 
 The Indian could not answer. He waded in, as did 
 Mukwa and some others, to help the paddlers bring 
 their frail craft safely to the shore. Of course it was 
 Dorothy's canoe he guided, and he held it steady until, 
 flushed with exercise, her face already ruddy with the 
 sun's painting, her eyes sparkling, she stepped upon 
 the shore. 
 
 "Oh, Strongheart!" she cried, "isn't it glorious! 
 They wouldn't let me paddle until today, and I believe 
 I could have beaten Mr. Winterton if I'd tried." 
 
 "And if he had let you," added her brother. 
 "Strongheart, old boy, how are you?" 
 
 Strongheart shook hands with each of them, his 
 eyes more expressive of his pleasure than were his 
 words, and hastened to assist Mrs. Nelson. 
 
 "At last, Strongheart," said she, in a tone that im- 
 plied the successful passing of a crisis, "here we are 
 in the land of the O jib ways." 
 
 "I hope your journey has not been unpleasant," he 
 suggested. 
 
 "Far from it. It's fatiguing to sit still so long in a 
 canoe, and I should think those who do the work have 
 a little the best of it, but it is all so novel, and your 
 country is so beautiful, that I really have enjoyed every 
 minute." 
 
 "That is good. Glad to see you, Winterton. Mukwa 
 260
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 will show you where your camp is to be. Let me know 
 if you need help." 
 
 The veteran guide's lips parted in a smile that would 
 have been quizzical if his heart could have descended 
 so far toward ill nature, and after a pause he re- 
 sponded in Ojibway, "I've more help now than I know 
 what to do with, Soangetaha. Did you ever see a 
 small party with so much baggage, and so many to 
 do for them?" 
 
 "The ladies are not used to our kind of traveling," 
 said Strongheart, in the same tongue. 
 
 "Oh ! aren't they ? Well, when they do get used to 
 it, let me know. I never traveled with people more 
 contented, or easier to get on with. The old lady does 
 what she's told and stays put without a murmur, and 
 the young one ayah!" and Winterton looked admir- 
 ingly toward the visitors who at the moment were 
 conversing with Kiwetin. "The young one! I tell 
 you, Soangetaha, if I were thirty years younger she 
 shouldn't leave this country without taking me with" 
 her." 
 
 "Why, you old softy!" cried Strongheart, delighted 
 to hear Dorothy praised, "I never knew you to be 
 disturbed by a pretty face before. What's happened ?" 
 
 "It isn't her prettiness," said Winterton, "though 
 that beats anything I ever saw, but it's the way she 
 fits in with whatever is doing. She's forever wanting 
 to help somebody, and generally she knows how with- 
 out asking. She could easily make a fool of any man, 
 I'm thinking." 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, Winterton, she won't try." 
 261
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Strongheart, happy as a child, having seen that Win- 
 terton understood the local arrangements, joined the 
 group about the Chief. 
 
 "What has Mr. Winterton been saying about us?" 
 demanded Mrs. Nelson. "My ears are tingling, so I 
 know he has been telling tales." 
 
 "Quite right, Mrs. Nelson. He has been compli- 
 menting you and your daughter as good travelers. 
 You have become acquainted with my father, I see." 
 
 "Yes, Frank introduced us. I have been trying to 
 tell him what a pleasure it is to us to visit his country." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Kiwetin, "you welcome. I am only 
 sorry that Livingston could not come with you. He 
 is fine young man. Soangetaha tells me he has crossed 
 big bitter water." 
 
 "He and his sister went to Europe," Mrs. Nelson 
 explained. 
 
 "Yes. I understand there are many small countries 
 there, each with great many people, and I have often 
 wondered how there could be room for them all." 
 
 "They are certainly more crowded than you are," 
 said Mrs. Nelson. "You have room enough." 
 
 "Well, yes, I suppose so," Kiwetin admitted dubi- 
 ously. "We don't get in each others' way very much, 
 but white men are putting up sawmills and building 
 towns in every direction. They pressing us closer 
 every year." He was interrupted by a coughing fit. 
 "Yes, yes," he added, wiping his eyes when he could 
 speak again, "I suppose there is room enough for us. 
 Is there no chance that Livingston will come up this 
 Summer ?"
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "I'm afraid not," Frank answered. "He has planned 
 to be away nearly three months, and then college be- 
 gins again. A year from now I'll bet you nothing can 
 keep him away." 
 
 "I should like to see him again," said Kiwetin, som- 
 brely. 
 
 Strongheart conducted his visitors to the Chief's 
 wigwam, and then excused himself that he might see 
 that all his arrangements were observed in the placing 
 of their tents. 
 
 "I've had one of my life's desires," said Dorothy, 
 when they were alone. ''Ever since I read Dick's letters 
 I have wanted to hear Chief Kiwetin say 'Yes, yes.' " 
 
 Her brother laughed. "It doesn't take much provo- 
 cation to bring that out," he said. 
 
 "I came near laughing, too, the first time he said 
 it," Dorothy went on. "I had forgotten to expect the 
 mannerism, and when he used it in that hasty way, as 
 if he were apologizing for putting you to the trouble 
 of speaking, the impression given by Dick's letters 
 came over me, and I had all I could do to keep from 
 laughing outright. And then later, when he said 
 'Yes, yes,' again, I wanted to cry." 
 
 "Good gracious! Why?" 
 
 "Didn't you hear him cough ? I'm afraid the Chief 
 is in a bad way. Did he cough like that last Sum- 
 mer?" 
 
 "Not that I remember. I s'pose he's caught cold." 
 
 Dorothy said nothing more on this matter, for the 
 reason that her soul was heavy with apprehension 
 which seemed, even to herself, exaggerated in com- 
 
 263
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 parison with its cause. Why should she be disturbed 
 by an old man's cough ? Of course she was interested 
 in Kiwetin, and regret that he should be ailing was 
 natural; but she knew no reason why the Chief's 
 health should appeal to her as such a personal affair. 
 She felt as if a prophet had foretold her own unhappi- 
 ness, but she said to herself that her brother's careless 
 view was the right one, namely, that there was no 
 evidence, even in a distressing cough, to warrant the 
 supposition that this dweller in the open was in a seri- 
 ous condition. 
 
 The visitors saw little of Strongheart until evening. 
 To him it seemed impossible to restrain the impulse to 
 seek her presence, and this very attraction decided 
 him to resist by occupying himself elsewhere in pro- 
 viding for her comfort. So he gave unnecessary help 
 and oversight in setting up the camp, and it was Frank 
 who took Dorothy and his mother from one wigwam 
 to another, introducing them to Black Eagle, Gezhik- 
 way, and such others as had been in the village dur- 
 ing his visit of the preceding Summer. 
 
 Dorothy found everything fascinating, and glimpses 
 of Strongheart busy at a distance, were quite enough 
 to prevent her from wondering why he was not in 
 constant attendance. Her soul was still as serene as 
 the Summer day with respect to the impending crisis 
 in her life. Indeed, Dick Livingston was much more 
 in her thoughts that day than was Strongheart, for 
 every step she took recalled something in his pleasant 
 letters, and her heart ached not a little as, now and 
 then, her memory recurred to the disappointment she 
 
 264
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 had been obliged to inflict on the good fellow. "Why," 
 she sometimes asked herself, "why is it that I do not 
 and cannot think of Dick as he wishes me to? What 
 have I done that I must be the source of pain to the 
 best friend I have?" 
 
 Mrs. Nelson invited the Chief and Strongheart to 
 supper at her camp, and both came without ceremony. 
 Dorothy noticed that Strongheart was remarkably' 
 silent, quite like the passive stranger she remembered 
 on the occasion of her first meeting with him. She 
 wondered if it might be because of his father's pres- 
 ence, that is, that at home he must abide by the ancient 
 customs of his people and, despite his maturity and 
 education, speak only when the elder man permitted? 
 
 Doubtless there was that in the situation as a factor, 
 but Strongheart's silence was not indicative of inactiv- 
 ity. His senses were alert, his reason at exercise. 
 Then, as ever throughout the visit, he was covertly 
 watching and studying Dorothy. Whatever passed 
 before her eyes, whatever happened by accident or 
 prearrangement, he observed its effect on her, esti- 
 mating the impression it made, and weighing it for 
 its possible influence on his future. Thus, when the 
 long, bright hours between supper and sunset had 
 passed, and twilight began slowly to drift down upon 
 the lake, he saw her eyes dreamily reflect the chang- 
 ing colors, her lips half part in appreciation of beauty 
 that found its complement in the speechless places of 
 her soul. His land was taking possession of her, and 
 she was content. And a little later, when the stars 
 shone with such brilliance as they never display in the 
 
 265
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 atmosphere of the metropolis and its neighborhood, 
 when the islands lost their outlines and merged in the 
 general shadow, when the smoldering campfire 
 worked its wizardry and colored the faces of all so 
 that visitors and O jib ways seemed to be of the same 
 race, he saw her eyes suddenly dilate with glad sur- 
 prise, he saw that she caught her breath and held it 
 as if she would still even the beating of her heart that 
 she might not miss the faintest sound that came glid- 
 ing across the silent floor of water to her as a special 
 offering of the O jib way people to their guest. For, 
 somewhere out on the lake, was a canoe, or a flotilla, 
 may be, whose passengers were singing. Distance, 
 and the water, and the holiness of night softened the 
 voices and smoothed away their crudities; the melody 
 rose and fell as if it sprang from one throat ; the high 
 tones rang with the glad spontaneity of bird warblings, 
 and the low tones at the end lingered as if reluctant 
 to finish, and died away into breathless silence. 
 
 Dorothy knew the song. It was one of those she 
 had laboriously reduced to notes and framed with 
 harmony that could but approximate to the exquisite 
 enhancement given by Nature's surroundings ; Strong- 
 heart's first song, the song of elopement. She turned 
 to see him looking inquiringly at her, and, interpret- 
 ing his glance to ask whether she recognized the song, 
 she nodded and smiled, and then gave attention again 
 to the distant music. It seemed to him that the spirit 
 of his people appealed to her through their art, and 
 that she, as a gracious queen, gave favorable ear to 
 the petition. 
 
 266
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Beautiful!" she exclaimed under her breath, when 
 the last strain had dissolved in the night, leaving the 
 darkness sweet with memories of music; "Mamma, 
 did you ever hear anything so impressive?" 
 
 "Never," replied Mrs. Nelson. "The effect is quite 
 unlike that of music generally. I suppose it is the 
 unexpectedness, and the mystery of darkness, and the 
 peaceful surroundings, that make it seem like a reli- 
 gious service. I'm afraid I can't express it, but it's 
 awe-inspiring." 
 
 "Almost uncanny," suggested Frank. 
 
 "What does it mean, Strongheart ?" Mrs. Nelson 
 asked. 
 
 "The song, Mrs. Nelson? Surely you remember it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I've heard you sing it in your two lan- 
 guages. What I meant was, is there any special sig- 
 nificance in the singing now, at this time and place?" 
 
 "I think not," Strongheart replied. "Some of the 
 people have gone out on the lake in the cool of the 
 evening for pleasure, and they sing. That is all. 
 The whites do the same, don't they?" 
 
 "Never a tribe of whites had surroundings to exalt 
 their pleasure to such poetic heights," said Dorothy, 
 "and, so far as I have observed, no party of whites 
 ever sang spontaneously music that seemed so appro- 
 priate, so essential a part of the scene and atmos- 
 phere." 
 
 "You're right there, Dorothy," said her brother. 
 "If that was a crowd of our people, now, they'd be 
 bawling 'Marching Through Georgia,' 'Sweet Bye- 
 and-bye,' and 'Bluebell,' in turn, and each with more 
 
 267
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 lung power than sentiment. I didn't pay much atten- 
 tion to the music of the Ojibways last Summer, but I 
 did get the impression of a difference between the 
 Indian and the white-man point of view with regard to 
 the art. It seems to me the average white man sings 
 for the fun of the thing, and that the Indian sings 
 because he loves music, and feels, unconsciously, per- 
 haps, that it is necessary to the expression of his deep- 
 est feelings. If I am right, it follows inevitably that 
 the Indian, whatever the words of his song, will pro- 
 duce music more appropriate to the general situation 
 than the white man does." 
 
 "Well done, Frank!" cried Mrs. Nelson. "Between 
 the camera and football you may develop into a 
 philosopher." 
 
 "I suppose I ought to apologize for having a serious 
 thought or two," said Frank. 
 
 "Don't let's get frivolous just yet," Dorothy pleaded. 
 "Frank is right. The white-man music, with all its 
 beauty, is complex and artificial. It smacks of the 
 hall, some of it dignified and some of it cheap, some 
 proper to Carnegie Hall, some to the vulgar vaude- 
 ville. None of it speaks of Nature. This music does. 
 It has come into being as spontaneously as bird songs, 
 created by Nature-lovers oh, hush !" 
 
 The discussion ceased abruptly, for another song 
 was floating across the water from the singers in dark- 
 ness upon it, and, as his guests bent their attention 
 to the music, and Strongheart concentrated all his 
 thoughts on Dorothy, he wondered if his people were 
 forging chains of delight to bind her to their land and 
 
 268
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 themselves. And just when wonder grew to convic- 
 tion that it would be so, his soul drew back, abashed. 
 How had he dared cherish such dreams? What had 
 become of his reason ? What folly to pose himself for 
 an instant as worthy of her! She seemed even then 
 so far away, existent in so fine an atmosphere that the 
 breath of her worshiper would poison it what could 
 he, then, but sigh over her utter unattainability ? 
 
 Strongheart's humility endured throughout the en- 
 tire visit. Not once until the day of departure came, 
 did Strongheart the man overcome Strongheart the 
 worshiper. Yet always was he watchful, observant of 
 every slight manifestation of the impression made upon 
 her by his people. Her interest was unmistakable ; 
 her sympathy seemed to be deeply stirred, not as one 
 who pities, but who loves. The children scampered 
 after her, and were content to sit still with her; the 
 squaws, bashful, embarrassed by her attention, yet 
 smiled sheepishly, and giggled behind their aprons 
 when she spoke to them; the old men nodded their 
 heads approvingly when she passed. 
 
 One of their excursions took them to the reserva- 
 tion where Dorothy saw the log huts which the Chief 
 condemned as improper for Indian habitation. She 
 saw the meagre farms, little more than gardens, the 
 trader's store, the pathetic attempts of some of the 
 people to imitate the whites in the decoration of their 
 rooms, colored supplements of Sunday newspapers 
 taking the place of paintings, an atrocious chromo 
 here and there insulting the landscape. In more than 
 one house she found a cabinet organ. Nobody could 
 
 269
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 play on it, but there were children in the family who 
 some day might learn, and meantime, when a stray 
 visitor like Dorothy played, all the neighbors gathered 
 to listen, awestruck, too overwhelmed with delight to 
 speak. On a Sunday they went to the rude little 
 church where the missionary, one of those rare work- 
 ers who realize how necessary it is for the white 
 teacher to submerge himself among his people, con- 
 ducted the entire service in Ojibway. 
 
 "Ah, Strongheart !" said Dorothy, after this visit, 
 "what a mission you have ! To be the leader and guide 
 of all these good people! How they need you, and 
 how you will toil for them ! It seems to me a glorious 
 prospect. So much higher and better than the careers 
 our white boys look forward to." 
 
 "Then, Miss Nelson," said he, hesitatingly, "you 
 think the people worth the effort?" 
 
 "Why, Strongheart! are they not human beings? 
 I should think them worth the effort, the most strenu- 
 ous effort and greatest sacrifice of which their leader 
 was capable, even if they were degraded and insensi- 
 ble ; and they're not degraded." 
 
 "No, not degraded," said he, "but I wonder if you 
 see how motionless they are? how hard to start from 
 the rut." 
 
 "I apprehend it, I think," she answered. "It will 
 take vast patience, and the work can only be begun in 
 your lifetime, but what a start you can give it !" 
 
 Dorothy would have liked to linger the Summer 
 through in Ojibway land; even Mrs. Nelson left it 
 with pleasant regrets; but the visit had to be brief, 
 
 270
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 because Dorothy had her work to do in sultry August 
 among the poor of New York; and all too soon the 
 morning came when Winterton dismantled the camp 
 and loaded most of the articles in a canoe. Outfit for 
 one man was left behind, for Frank was to return, 
 after escorting his mother and sister to the Soo, for 
 an extended trip northward with Winterton and the 
 camera. On that morning Strongheart endured a 
 mighty struggle with himself. It was the imperious 
 demand of Nature that he speak and tell her all that 
 was in his soul; reason assured him that it was not 
 yet time. Blind passion cried that if he let her go 
 uninformed, she would never return not to his coun- 
 try, but to her present emotional state ; that no condi- 
 tions in the city could be so favorable to his desires 
 as these ; but reason resisted ! The hour was not yet. 
 The memory of this land would endure with her as a 
 vital part of her being, or it would fade; he would 
 know after his return to college; reason and hunger 
 for the civilized life bade him wait till then, when he 
 could direct his course according to the permanence 
 or transitoriness of her immediate impressions. Rea- 
 son was almost as blind as passion, but it triumphed, 
 and the silence of the Indian was on him as he exerted 
 all his inheritance of repression; but the desire 
 of his soul cried in his eyes, and the look which 
 Dorothy caught as she shook his hand in farewell 
 pierced to the depths of her nature, and when she 
 took the paddle which he handed her, she could hardly 
 hold it 
 
 "Bye-bye, old fellow," she heard her brother say, 
 271
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 V 
 
 his cheerful voice seeming at a great distance; "see 
 
 you later. Get busy, Dorothy." 
 
 Mechanically she dipped her paddle; for a few 
 strokes her arms were nerveless; a truth had been 
 revealed to her too suddenly for calm acceptance. 
 Well was it that the exigencies of the moment com- 
 pelled her to keep her face away from her brother's. 
 
 272
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE PLOTTER 
 
 The great crisis in Strongheart's life came early in 
 the next academic year, when incidents in connection 
 with a game of football set the O jib way and his friends 
 face to face with an elemental problem, and forced 
 them into new relationships. 
 
 Nelson was again the captain of the Columbia 
 Eleven, and his best individual subordinates were 
 Strongheart and Livingston. General interest in the 
 team and its prospects rose to an unprecedented pitch 
 as the season drew to its close because, first, Colum- 
 bia's most formidable rival had an exceptionally strong 
 eleven, and, second, because it looked as if Columbia 
 would go upon the field for the decisive game handi- 
 capped by the absence of at least one of its best play- 
 ers. Strongheart had met with a slight accident; 
 a burly adversary had fallen on him in a scrimmage 
 in such a way as to strain the tendon of his ankle. 
 The Indian was unable to finish that game, and the 
 surgeon had expressed grave doubt whether he could 
 venture to play again during the season. 
 
 From the beginning of the academic year, Living- 
 ston had devoted himself to football with ardor that 
 surprised his associates and caused no little comment, 
 
 2T3
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 all of the most favorable character. It was generally 
 supposed that his extraordinary interest was due to 
 the fact that this was his senior year at the University, 
 and the last occasion, therefore, when he could play 
 the game for his college. The fact was that Living- 
 ston had exalted the game to a degree of romanticism 
 which is not altogether uncommon among students 
 who have come within sight of the end of their school 
 days. He had hastened to Dorothy after his return. 
 If he had cherished anticipation of finding her more 
 favorably disposed, he knew his disappointment at the 
 first glance into her eyes. Affection of the sisterly 
 sort shone certainly in their limpid depths, but a 
 definite regret also. It required no extraordinary gift 
 of divination to perceive that she had nerved herself 
 sorrowfully but determinedly to oppose him. Yet he 
 must have her attitude in plain words. 
 
 "Your letters were delightful, Dick," she said. 
 
 "And not too personal?" he suggested. 
 
 She shook her head with an elusive smile. 
 
 "Dorothy," said he, "the matter that I promised 
 not to incorporate in words was beneath the lines, just 
 as you said it would be." 
 
 "I am sorry, Dick." 
 
 "And you'd much rather I wouldn't bring it to the 
 surface now?" 
 
 "It is not pleasant for me to give pain, Dick." 
 
 "Never mind the pain. There's nothing worse than 
 uncertainty. I want to be clear on a point or two. 
 Try to forgive me for one blunt question. Are you 
 pledged to somebody " 
 
 274
 
 STRON G HE ART 
 
 "No, no, Dick!" 
 
 "Then I'm still in the running. If you'd said yes 
 to that question, I should have said God bless you, 
 with as much grace and sincerity as I could muster, 
 and have let you alone forever. As it is, you can't 
 help the fact that I love you, but I'm not going to be 
 so small as to annoy you with importunities. I'll 
 give you no trouble, Dorothy, but I want the answer 
 to one more question. I don't need to say that I've 
 done a whole lot of thinking this Summer. I have 
 held you and myself up to my analytical eye and 
 looked us both over, and I have said, 'Here's a pair 
 of us, remarkably alike in certain respects, totally 
 unlike in others. We're the children of wealth. So- 
 cially, we are equal ; intellectually, if I may say so, 
 we are on the same level ; morally, we are wide apart. 
 I am an idler, you a worker. You justify your exist- 
 ence and your fortunate circumstances by doing good 
 for others. I don't do a blame thing but cater to my 
 own enjoyment, which, for the sake of the argument, 
 we will agree is reasonably innocent.' So I have called 
 myself to the bar and condemned myself for a chump 
 to dream that I could win your love. 'Dorothy,' said 
 the judge in these proceedings, requires that the man 
 who loves her shall be one who accomplishes things. 
 He needn't necessarily be a philanthropist, I'm sure, 
 but he must at least be one who works with some sort 
 of purpose. You,' said the judge, addressing me, 'do 
 just enough studying to pass your examinations, and 
 when you're in the big world you'll probably escape 
 jail and the gallows, but you'll be about as useful to 
 
 275
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 the community as a rusty bronze statue in Central Park, 
 and not half as ornamental, and when I think of those 
 statues,' added the judge, 'that's saying a whole lot.' " 
 
 "Dick," cried Dorothy, almost hysterical between 
 laughter and tears, "I never condemned you " 
 
 "I know it," he interrupted. "My analytical self 
 did that, but I believe you approve the judgment. 
 Isn't it a fact, now, that you would want your lover 
 to make a stir, to be up and coming, to try, at least, 
 to do something worth while? Tell me!" 
 
 "Why," she answered, more painfully handicapped 
 than he could dream, "I do admire action and purpose 
 as opposed to idleness and indifference. So much is 
 true, but honestly, Dick, I never had thought of you 
 as lacking in the qualities I admire. You are my 
 friend" 
 
 "But, to win your love I've got to be more than 
 what, for politeness sake, we'll call a good fellow. 
 Now let me tell you, Dorothy, that with you to inspire 
 me I could struggle, and sacrifice, and fight for any 
 sort of career you wished me to undertake. I wish 
 you'd guide me. I'm going to graduate pretty soon. 
 What shall I be? You must help me find out, this 
 Winter. Meantime, I'll meet all the requirements of 
 the faculty so far as books are concerned. That's 
 nothing. It demands no special exertion, and the only 
 thing else I can do is to play football as the game never 
 was played before." 
 
 She looked at him in some perplexity. It was plain 
 enough that his lighthearted way of discussing the 
 subject was all assumption; that beneath his half 
 
 276
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 bantering manner lay earnestness and fine feeling. 
 But the sudden intrusion of football disconcerted her 
 for a moment. 
 
 "See here, Dorothy/' said he, noting her confusion, 
 and his manner becoming at once unmistakably seri- 
 ous, "football requires sacrifice, exertion, and purpose 
 to win. It's the only real thing I have to work for at 
 the moment, and I'm going into it this season in the 
 same spirit with which the knights of old went into 
 the tourneys. I'm going to play the game feeling that 
 the struggle is for the honor of a lady who is looking 
 on at the lists. I want to feel that the lady is observ- 
 ant, and that she will recognize that I fight for her." 
 
 "I believe," said Dorothy, "that the ladies in the 
 case of knights of old were not bound to give their 
 hearts to the victors." 
 
 "Let it be so. The knights fought valiantly for the 
 mere emblem, a ribbon, or whatever it was, that their 
 ladies bestowed upon them. If they were inspired to 
 the utmost effort and daring, why shouldn't I be? 
 I'd like to think that you were the dame whose colors 
 I wore in the combat. I haven't any purpose in life 
 as yet, except to win you. Isn't it something to go at 
 the one thing that is to be done with all the vim of 
 which a man is capable? While I'm hunting for a 
 career, or a purpose, football is to be played. There- 
 fore I'll play it as if, for the time being, it was all there 
 was in life." 
 
 "Good," said Dorothy, "I agree to that. Of course 
 I want Columbia to win, and equally of course I want 
 you to do your best." 
 
 277
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "I shall, for thinking of you, Dorothy, and when 
 the time comes that I see a more serious purpose ahead, 
 I shall tackle its difficulties in the same spirit." 
 
 True to his attitude, Livingston refrained from mak- 
 ing love to Dorothy, and he plunged into football, as 
 noted above, with such excess of devotion as to cause 
 comment. 
 
 "Don't you think there's some danger of carrying 
 this thing a little too far?" Strongheart suggested one 
 day, when preparation for the great game was under 
 discussion. 
 
 "Can't be helped, old chap," Livingston replied. 
 "My heart is in this game, literally. You see, Strong- 
 heart, I am much interested in a certain young lady, 
 and I know she'll be delighted if we win. I'm going 
 to play for her quite as much as for the University." 
 
 "Right enough," the Ojibway responded. "The 
 more spirit of that kind, the better our prospects, but 
 what I'm getting at is that you may endanger the very 
 thing you strive for by overdoing the training. I'm 
 not a good judge of such a thing, of course, for I'm 
 not a city man, and my summers have hardened me 
 so that I don't need to train in the same way as the 
 rest." 
 
 "That's just it, Strongheart. You're always fit, as 
 a matter of habit. Now, in my case, I get up a cer- 
 tain degree of efficiency, and then let it go. All last 
 Summer, you see, I was knocking around in hotels and 
 trains and boats, exercising my wonder-box mightily, 
 and letting my muscles go to waste. I've simply got 
 to train hard so as to be at my very extra best. It's 
 
 278
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 for her sake, don't you see?" and he laughed cheer- 
 fully, as if he would not have his intimate disclosure 
 taken too seriously. 
 
 Buckley, the team's coach, was not so gentle as 
 Strongheart in calling Livingston's attention to his 
 error. 
 
 "See here," said he, a day or two later, "you're 
 going to be no good. You won't be worth a damn if 
 you keep on this way." 
 
 Livingston looked so scared that if Buckley had 
 been anybody but a coach he would have relented, and 
 administered his admonition in soothing terms. But 
 no; it is the province of the coach to recognize but 
 one feeling: the desire to win. He knows nothing of 
 good intentions. Good fellowship, friendship, com- 
 mon courtesy, do not exist for him until the game has 
 passed into history. 
 
 "I s'pose you think you're doing a hell of a good 
 thing by training until your muscles are brittle as 
 glass," said the conscientious Buckley. "First thing 
 you know you'll faint away while walking onto the 
 field. Don't be a damn fool any longer, now, but 
 break training and take a fresh start." 
 
 "Break training!" echoed Livingston, blankly. 
 
 "Yes, overeat, sit up all night, go on a tear, take 
 a drink or two, anything so long as you give your 
 infernal system a shock. And when you've sobered 
 up, get down to work again with something like dis- 
 cretion. Get Nelson, or Strongheart, to steer you if 
 you don't know how to take care of yourself." 
 
 Livingston was horribly humiliated, but his humilia- 
 279
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 tion was nothing to his fright. It was maddening to 
 think that he might not be in condition to play in the 
 game, or, to be in apparently good condition and yet 
 really in such shape that his weakness would develop 
 fatally at some emergency where the issue of the con- 
 test depended on him. There was nothing for it but 
 to take Buckley's harsh rebuke with the utmost seri- 
 ousness, and, as the simplest, quickest, and probably 
 most effective way of breaking training, Livingston 
 sped straight to a barroom and dosed himself with 
 whiskey. Buckley had demanded that he give his sys- 
 tem a shock, and that desideratum the fiery liquor 
 accomplished with admirable fidelity to its purpose. 
 Weeks of abstemious living were poor preparation for 
 resisting the effects of alcohol, and when Livingston 
 emerged from the barroom, he was the most serene 
 optimist in the vicinity. Buckley was right; a little 
 rough in his manner, but his heart was all right; 
 many a game had been lost by over-training, all right, 
 and Buckley knew the symptoms; he had diagnosed 
 the case correctly, and the remedy had been applied in 
 the nick of time; everything was all right now. 
 
 It was while Livingston was in this condition of 
 perfect contentment, disposed, indeed, to look with 
 loving forbearance on the foibles of all mankind, that 
 Ralph Thorne ran across him, and Thome's sharp 
 eyes took in the situation at a glance. Thorne, too, 
 had been to see Dorothy, and he had retired from her 
 presence firmly convinced that the one obstacle to his 
 success lay in her attachment to another. All that was 
 mean within him was stirred to the deeps by his 
 
 280
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 jealousy, which demanded a definite object on which 
 to fasten its poisonous fangs. He looked over the field 
 and eliminated quickly all but Strongheart and Liv- 
 ingston. It was difficult to believe that the O jib way 
 could be a potent factor in the case, but everything was 
 possible, and Thorne kept him in view during the early 
 part of the term equally with Livingston. He had 
 occasion to see them in Dorothy's presence more than 
 once, and the result of his observations was the fixing 
 upon Livingston as his favored rival. Nothing then 
 would do but he must discover some way to discredit 
 Livingston in the eyes of Dorothy, and much gray 
 matter that might have been profitably consumed in 
 overcoming Pol-Econ went to waste in vain efforts to 
 invent a scheme of vengeance whereby Livingston 
 might be disgraced without the apparent activity of 
 Thorne himself as an agent in the matter. When he 
 met Livingston, and noted his condition, the possibility 
 of a way burst upon him and warmed his sore heart 
 with pleasing hope. 
 
 "Hello, Dick," said he, and then, with a fine show 
 of indignant surprise, "you've been drinking! What 
 the devil do you mean when the most important game 
 of the season is yet to be played?" 
 
 "It's all right, Thorne," Dick responded with por- 
 tentous gravity, "I assure you it's all right. Buck- 
 ley's orders. Yes, on my word. Trained too fine, you 
 know. Muscles brittle as glass. Break training, says 
 Buckley. Man of keen discernment, is Buckley. 
 Sound judgment. He knows. Take a drink or two, 
 says Buckley. Give your system a shock and take a 
 
 281
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 fresh start. That's what I'm doing, Thorne. Got the 
 shock aboard, and tomorrow I'll unload and get on the 
 water wagon again and go to work." 
 
 "Well, I'm relieved to hear that," said Thorne, 
 grasping him by the arm. "Better come up to my room 
 for an hour or two. I'm on the water wagon myself, 
 but there's a drop in the decanter if you should feel 
 like another. And up there nobody need know that 
 you're drunk." 
 
 "Drunk!" cried Livingston, hotly, "I'm not drunk. 
 Who says so?" 
 
 "Well," replied Thorne, laughing, "I noticed it, you 
 see, and if some of the younger members of the team 
 should catch on, it might have a bad influence on them. 
 They wouldn't understand, you know." 
 
 "That's so," said Livingston, after thinking very 
 hard for a moment, "that's so. Might mislead them. 
 You're right, Thorne. I'll get out of sight." 
 
 To Thome's room they went, where, shortly after- 
 ward came, as Thorne knew they would, three men- 
 about-town, or, in less polite language, gamblers. One 
 of them, Fred Skinner, was Thome's regular medium 
 for the placing of bets on races and all forms of ath- 
 letic contests. These worthies had called for a session 
 at poker, and Livingston was invited to join the game. 
 
 "Stay out if you think best, Dick," said Thorne, 
 with affected kindness. "Better not play if you think 
 your judgment would be at all hazy." 
 
 "Pooh!" exclaimed Livingston, "judgment's all 
 right. My mind was never clearer. Don't make me 
 feel like a fool, Ralph. Gimme chips." 
 
 282
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Just as you say, Dick, but you know what poker 
 is. We play the game for all it's worth, and friend- 
 ship doesn't count." 
 
 "I'm no kid," was Livingston's dignified rejoinder. 
 
 The cards were shuffled and dealt, shuffled and 
 dealt, and for some time Livingston managed his hands 
 with such discretion that Thorne feared his oppor- 
 tunity for revenge would slip from him. He placed 
 the decanter within Livingston's reach, and cursed 
 silently when his guest declined to apply himself to it. 
 Livingston won a little, and that fact more than any 
 other completed the fuddlement of his brain that had 
 been temporarily stayed by his effort to concentrate 
 attention on the game. Shortly afterwards he bet all 
 his chips against Skinner on the strength of a full 
 house of jacks. Skinner had a full of queens. 
 
 "Well!" exclaimed Livingston, as he saw his chips 
 go to the other side of the table, "that's poker. I'm 
 sure I didn't over-bet my hand." 
 
 "Sure not," said Skinner. "It was your bad luck. 
 That's all. Next time it'll go your way, probably." 
 
 "Trouble is there can't be any next time," said Liv- 
 ingston, after fumbling in his pockets. "I'm broke. 
 You see, I didn't come prepared for a game." 
 
 "That doesn't matter," said Thorne. "You don't 
 need to quit the game just for the lack of a little 
 money. Give me your I-O-U for what you want." 
 
 It struck Livingston that this was remarkably gen- 
 erous, and yet it was quite in accord with his own 
 affectionate regard for his fellow-men, and, as the 
 dealer paused in doubt whether to give him cards, he 
 
 283
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 ended what little hesitation he had by saying he would 
 take a hand, and he made out an I-O-U for a hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 The game proceeded with varying fortune, but as 
 the hours passed, Livingston had occasion repeatedly 
 to replenish his working capital by exchanging I-O-Us 
 for chips. Luck was going against him, it seemed, 
 but it might turn. He was persuaded it would if he 
 stuck to the game long enough. How much he had 
 lost he did not know, but it was more than he could 
 stand, and the only way he could get even was to 
 keep on playing. 
 
 And so it came about that when the session ended 
 just before sunrise, Livingston's I-O-Us were counted 
 and found to amount to the appalling sum of three 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 "Lord Harry!" gasped Livingston. "Three thou- 
 sand ! why ! " and he looked blankly at Thorne. 
 
 "Hard luck, Dick," said Thorne, lightly. "You 
 played your hands all right, but luck was against you. 
 That sort of thing will happen once in a while in 
 poker, you know." 
 
 "Yes, but " and Livingston choked, unable to con- 
 tinue. 
 
 "See here, Livingston," said Thorne, looking at him 
 sharply, and putting a cool edge on his tone, "do you 
 mean to say you can't meet those obligations of honor ? 
 that you played without knowing you could make 
 good?" 
 
 "Of course I'll make good" Livingston retorted, 
 offended at once. "I was merely expressing surprise. 
 
 284
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 I'll take up those papers in a day or two. You under- 
 stand that I shall have to send home for the money?" 
 
 "Oh, that's all right." 
 
 "To you, yes, but I suppose I may be pardoned for 
 not looking on the consequences with any high degree 
 of exhilaration. It will probably mean my immediate 
 withdrawal from college." 
 
 "Why ! what the" 
 
 "Don't think I'm playing the baby act," interrupted 
 Livingston, hastily. "I should pay those notes if I 
 was to hang for it next minute. I ought not to have 
 spoken of it." 
 
 "But my dear fellow," Thome protested, "don't mis- 
 understand me. You mustn't leave college. Why! 
 you're absolutely essential to the game now that 
 Strongheart is out of it." 
 
 "The game will have to be played without me, I 
 fear. It's all right, Thorne. I shouldn't have risked 
 not the money, which I can get, but the game. I did, 
 and I must take my medicine. You see, the governor 
 won't stand for any form of gambling. He's been 
 willing enough to put up for my scrapes when it was 
 nothing worse than damages to some barber whose 
 pole had been ragged, and things like that, but gam- 
 bling, and such a sum, ha! it's too bad, but it'll be 
 home for me and no mistake." 
 
 "It mustn't be!" cried Thorne, in apparent distress. 
 "We must find a way to adjust ' 
 
 "No! don't offer me any concession. I won't 
 have it." 
 
 "Well, I admire your spirit, Dick. I'd feel the same 
 285
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 way, but suppose I could suggest a way to get even 
 without informing your governor, or going to any 
 trouble whatever? It can be done in one coup, Dick. 
 Put up three thousand on the game. We're sure win- 
 ners." 
 
 Livingston laughed bitterly. "You ask a man who's 
 cleaned out to bet three thousand! Why, where the 
 mischief " 
 
 "I'll raise it for you, Dick. Come now, this isn't 
 offering you any concession, don't you see? Give me 
 your I-O-U for another three thousand, and I'll get 
 Skinner to put it up on Columbia. How's that, 
 Skinner?" 
 
 Skinner, who had listened interestedly to the whole 
 conversation, said he could easily find takers for the 
 amount. It was a good way to even up things, he 
 thought. 
 
 Livingston felt horribly tired. There were splitting 
 pains in his head. The more he tried to think of it, 
 the more it seemed that any device which promised 
 to relieve him from exposing his folly to his father 
 should be adopted. And there was the game. He 
 knew his worth in the Eleven. It would seem like 
 deserting his college if he failed to grasp an oppor- 
 tunity to serve her. And so, when he walked out in 
 the cool of the morning to find his own quarters, he 
 left evidence behind him that he owed six thousand 
 dollars to Ralph Thorne. 
 
 286
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 THE GAMBLER'S CHANCE 
 
 The real purpose of Thome's apparent generosity 
 to Livingston will be clear when it is known that his 
 own money was placed heavily against Columbia. He 
 had coolly estimated the merits of the opposing teams 
 and had come to the conclusion that Columbia, with 
 Strongheart absent, would be beaten, and he had bet 
 accordingly. Therefore, as he forecast the issue, the 
 game would leave Livingston hopelessly in debt, and 
 his ruin and disgrace would be assured. Thorne 
 might have been reasonably sure of his revenge if he 
 had left Livingston to struggle unaided with me orig- 
 inal debt of three thousand, but he preferred not only 
 to make assurance doubly sure, but so to contrive mat- 
 ters that he himself would shine in a favorable light 
 if ever the circumstances became generally known. It 
 would look as if he had gone out of his way to save 
 Livingston. 
 
 So it was a comparatively contented Thorne who 
 went about his various duties during the few days suc- 
 ceeding the game of poker. Then he was subjected to 
 a rude shock. Trustworthy information came to him 
 to the effect that the strongest player on the rival 
 eleven had been incapacitated by an accident, and, 
 
 287
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 therefore, could not play in the game. This was dread- 
 ful, for it gave Columbia at least an even chance of 
 victory. What could be done? Every dollar Thorne 
 had, or could borrow, had been bet against Columbia, 
 so that it was impossible to protect himself by hedg- 
 ing; but his financial interest in the outcome, while 
 serious enough, was as nothing to the design for 
 wrecking and disgracing Dick Livingston. Columbia 
 must lose the game in order that a personal grudge 
 might be paid. 
 
 The man who will bet against his own team is ripe 
 for treachery than which nothing is worse in the code 
 of college ethics. It occurred to Thorne that, if the 
 sides were evenly matched, a very trifle thrown into 
 the balance one way or the other would be decisive. 
 He must throw that trifle himself by deliberate mis- 
 plays. Even the plotter's heart stood still for a mo- 
 ment in ghastly apprehension at this thought, for he 
 had not contemplated the necessity for such crucial 
 action; but there seemed actually nothing else to be 
 done, and Thorne shut his jaws hard together on the 
 decision to do it. Then came another blow. The news 
 leaped from one corner of the university to another 
 that Strongheart would be able to play ! Thorne was 
 in consternation. With Strongheart in the game, and 
 the best man on the other side out of it, the idea that 
 one player like himself could determine the issue was 
 reduced to an absurdity. It would still be possible, 
 provided only the circumstances of the game brought 
 him to a critical play at precisely the right moment, 
 but it was improbable that such a favorable con- 
 
 288
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 tingency would arise. The game was but two days 
 away; with Columbia victorious, Dick Livingston's 
 debts would be paid, and he would remain in college 
 more popular than ever ; moreover, he would likely be 
 a hero in Dorothy's eyes, for it was certain that he 
 would play his part in the game with at least his usual 
 brilliant effectiveness. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that tactics and gen- 
 eralship are quite as essential to modern football as are 
 muscle, speed and endurance. A vital part of the game 
 often consists in comprehension of the tactics of the 
 rival side, and in corresponding moves to render them 
 futile. It is the aim of each captain so to mask his 
 strategy that the adversaries cannot discover what is 
 the nature of the move against them until it is too late 
 to check it. To this end secret signals are employed. 
 On this occasion, as it appeared possible that Colum- 
 bia's signals might have become known from observa- 
 tion of the games earlier in the season, Buckley had 
 invented an entirely new set, which had been explained 
 to the players only the night before. If the captain 
 of the rival team were acquainted with the new 
 signals, victory for Columbia would be a sheer im- 
 possibility. 
 
 Thorne stifled the last of his feeble scruples his 
 conscience having been a total wreck for longer than 
 he could remember and wrote a list of the signals, 
 meaning to send them by mail to Farley, the manager 
 of the rival team; but he did not hurry to mail the 
 document, for there was plenty of time, and his fertile 
 brahi was stirred by a new idea which, if it could be 
 
 289
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 realized, would put the cap of perfection on the who.le 
 unsavory project. He remembered that there had 
 been one absentee at the meeting of the team at which 
 the signals were explained; and that Nelson had said 
 he would arrange to give the absentee, Billy Saunders, 
 a list in plenty of time to master them. Thorne be- 
 lieved it lay within the possibilities to get possession 
 of the list intended for Saunders, in which case that 
 list, and not the one in his own handwriting, would be 
 the one to send to Farley. It was only a remote chance 
 that he could get Billy's list, but Thorne was a gam- 
 bler, and he took the chance, postponing the mailing 
 to Farley until the last safe moment. 
 
 On the afternoon of the day when Thorne prepared 
 his treachery Nelson and Livingston gave a tea party 
 in their rooms to which they invited Mrs. Nelson and 
 their girl friends. It was to all intents and purposes 
 a football tea, for the girls were in a quiver of excite- 
 ment over the impending struggle, and the members 
 of the team were also present as guests. Thorne put 
 in an early appearance and found, as might have been 
 expected, that Nelson was in a panic lest the quarters 
 should not be in readiness by the time the girls were 
 due to arrive. Livingston himself was still among 
 the absent. Both hosts had not only been faithful to 
 routine college duties, but had put off preparation for 
 the tea in sublime ignorance of the scores of details to 
 which it demanded attention. Consequently every 
 footballer who arrived early was impressed into the 
 service, one to get tea, another biscuit and cakes, 
 another dishes., and so forth, and those to whom er-
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 rands could not be assigned bestirred themselves to 
 put the rooms into alleged order. 
 
 Thorne passed the errands on to younger members 
 of the team, and remained in the sitting-room. Nelson 
 was in an adjoining room, dressing, when Livingston 
 bustled in, late and excited. 
 
 "Hello, Thorne," said he, throwing down an armful 
 of books. 
 
 Nelson recognized his chum's voice and called, "I 
 say, Dick, have you got that list of signals for Billy 
 Saunders ?" 
 
 "Yes, here they are," Livingston answered, taking 
 an envelope from his pocket. "I'll leave them in the 
 desk for him." 
 
 "All right, but don't forget to tell him where they 
 are, and hurry your dressing. Let Ralph fix things 
 up." 
 
 "You hear, Thorne," said Livingston. "Squint 
 your artistic eye, now, and get on the job." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, Livingston hurried 
 into his bedroom, and the moment his door banged 
 shut Thorne obeyed orders by "fixing things up" to the 
 extent of removing the list of signals from the desk 
 and putting in its place the list he had written himself. 
 He was alone in the room for no more than a half 
 minute, but it was enough. The gambler's luck was 
 with him to better purpose than he could have 
 dreamed, and the next student who came in found 
 Thorne putting things to rights with extraordinary 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 In due course came big Billy Saunders, and when
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 his voice was heard, Livingston called to him to get 
 the signals from the top drawer of the desk. Billy 
 opened the drawer, glanced at the contents of the 
 envelope lying there to make sure he had the right 
 article, and put it in his pocket. 
 
 Dorothy was one of the company that soon assem- 
 bled, and Thome had abundant food for jealousy in 
 magnifying her agreeable courtesies to Livingston 
 into marks of especial favor, but he was very well 
 content with the situation. In a party like this, where 
 all was jollity and enthusiasm, he could afford to 
 ignore the mere politeness with which Dorothy greeted 
 him, and wait for the time when Livingston's dis- 
 grace should turn her heart from him and leave it 
 open to a more discreet suitor. Strongheart was there 
 as a matter of course, but his demeanor was, as usual, 
 an enigma if one chose to scrutinize it with eyes of 
 hate, and irreproachable if viewed in a friendly way. 
 There were songs and laughter, joyous reminiscences 
 of football achievements past, and eager expressions 
 of hope for the game to come. Altogether the tea was, 
 to quote Billy Saunders, a howling success, but there 
 is no occasion to go into details except for one transac- 
 tion in which Billy figured as a principal. 
 
 Big Billy was rather more in love with Molly Liv- 
 ingston than he had been during the previous year, 
 and he had advanced his suit so far that now he could 
 not only talk in her presence, but to her, and, what is 
 more, make love to her. There came a brief interval 
 in the gay proceedings when, the others having trooped 
 to Nelson's study to look at his souvenirs, Billy and 
 
 292
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Molly were alone in the sitting-room. It was a rare 
 opportunity for intimate conversation, and Billy quick- 
 ly took advantage of it. 
 
 "I want five minutes' conversation with you," said 
 he, assuming aggressiveness that was perfectly trans- 
 parent to Molly. She knew it masked a heart that 
 still palpitated with timidity, and that this tower of 
 strength on the rush line could be bent and twisted 
 by the mere turning of her little finger. It was sport 
 royal to torment and worry the big fellow, and 
 although the dogged persistence of his suit had really* 
 won her, she could not yet forego the joy of leading 
 him as in a leash which he feared every minute would 
 be slipped. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Saunders," said she, with mock gravity, 
 "on what subject, if you please?" 
 
 "The same I made a noise about the last time we 
 were alone." 
 
 "Let me see; what was it? " 
 
 "Oh, come now, you know well enough, Molly. 
 There isn't any time to blow in, though it wouldn't 
 take you more'n half a second to give me an answer 
 to my question." 
 
 Molly appeared to resign herself to the inevitable. 
 "Well," she said, "if you really want me to believe 
 that I'm the only girl you ever cared anything about, 
 you've got to do something to prove it." 
 
 "But, gee whiz!" cried Billy, badly staggered, "a 
 fellow can't do anything heroic nowadays without get- 
 ting pinched. Now, if you and I'd only lived about 
 'steen hundred years ago " 
 
 293
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "And what would you have done then, brave Sir 
 Billy?" 
 
 "Oh, the usual stunts," Billy answered with charm- 
 ing simplicity. "I'd have browsed around on a nickel- 
 plated plug until I got against some gazabo that 
 thought his lady fair was the whole cheese. Then I'd 
 tell him he had bats in his belfry, and that I was carry- 
 ing a pretty fine line of lady fair myself. After that 
 I'd put him out of business just to show that my lady 
 fair was the main squeeze." 
 
 "Glorious!" cried Molly. "You're awfully roman- 
 tic, aren't you, Mr. Saunders?" 
 
 "Yes, I guess I am now, but before I met you I 
 was several chips shy on romance. Just the same, I 
 don't see how I'm any better off. You see, nickel- 
 plated plugs are out of style. There ought to be a 
 course in applied romance at the University, but there 
 isn't Say!" and his honest face beamed with enthu- 
 siasm, "I know what I can do." 
 
 "Well?" said Molly, breathlessly. 
 
 "If you want me to, I'll try to kill the other center 
 for you day after tomorrow." 
 
 "Oh!" and she shuddered as if she were wholly in 
 earnest, "not on my account. That application of 
 romance is out of style, too. But I'll tell you what you 
 can do. Give me something that means a great deal 
 to you. Something you've sworn you'd never part 
 with." 
 
 Billy had pulled out his watch before she was done 
 speaking, but it was obvious that such a gift was not 
 in harmony with her idea, and he regretfully put it 
 
 294
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 back and began to feel tentatively of his scarf pin. 
 That, too, was unsentimental in its associations, and 
 Molly shook her head. "Some girl's picture," she 
 suggested, "or something of that sort, you know." 
 
 "Why, Molly," said Billy, despairingly, "I never was 
 much of a lady's man. I guess this list of signals is 
 the only thing I haven't got a right to give away. 
 You see, no girl ever thought enough of me to give 
 me anything of her own. I s'pose the signals might 
 do, because if any one knows that I let them go out 
 of my hands, well, it would be down and out for mine." 
 
 Molly was delighted. "That would put you in my 
 power, wouldn't it?" she asked. 
 
 "I guess it would," Billy replied dubiously. "I can 
 get some of the other fellows to tutor me up on the 
 signals all right, so the game won't suffer. But just 
 the same I haven't any right to give them to you." 
 
 She took the envelope containing the precious sig- 
 nals and held it before her. "It's just splendid," she 
 cried, "to hold a man's honor in one's hands!" 
 
 "For heaving's sake don't drop it!" Billy pleaded, 
 putting his hands under and over hers. 
 
 It is entirely reasonable to suppose that if this lit- 
 tle comedy could have been brought then and there to 
 its conclusion, that Billy would have had the answer 
 he sought to his question; but just then there was a 
 demand for music, in which, when it was of the col- 
 lege variety, big Billy was essential ; and the interrup- 
 tion that then came to pass in the impromptu course 
 in applied romance endured until the great game was 
 over. 
 
 295
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE PENALTY OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 The first half of the great game was played, and 
 neither side had scored. Columbia's men were in their 
 quarters, listening with mingled feelings of humilia- 
 tion and resentment to a thorough dressing down from 
 Buckley. They had played such football as never had 
 been surpassed, so far as old observers knew, and 
 Buckley made it his business to convince them that 
 they had utterly failed to grasp their opportunities. 
 By every means at his command he sought to inspire 
 them to greater effort in the next half; sarcasm, con- 
 tempt, invective, pleading, cautions, appeals to college 
 spirit and personal pride, rolled from his tongue with 
 a strong admixture of feeling profanity, until every 
 man of them, except possibly Strongheart and Nelson, 
 who understood him, was exasperated to the highest 
 pitch, and quite ready to take the coach's demands 
 literally. 
 
 "Go into the next man and kill him," said Buckley. 
 "Get mad, damn you, get mad !" 
 
 Buckley spared nobody. Even the captain came in 
 by name for a sharp admonition; Livingston was re- 
 buked for getting penalized so that the team lo-t 
 twenty yards; and, "Thome," said Buckley, savagely, 
 
 296
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 'you've got to keep low. You missed your tackle 
 twice. Now if you do that again, you come off this 
 team. Three times they got through you, and the 
 second time the whole damn line came through." 
 
 Thorne bit his lip and tried to look indignant, while 
 his wretched heart quaked with fear lest his treachery 
 be discovered, for, of course, he knew why he had 
 missed his tackle; and he wondered in no little trepi- 
 dation why the fellows on the other side had not 
 seemed to be bright enough to take advantage of their 
 knowledge of Columbia's signals. 
 
 An answer to his unexpressed query was soon forth- 
 coming. The coach had exhausted his stock of abuse, 
 when a trainer came in, saying, "Mr. Buckley, Far- 
 ley wants to see the captain." 
 
 "Farley?" exclaimed one and another; "what's up 
 now ? What does he want ?" 
 
 Buckley looked doubtfully at Nelson. 
 
 "Have him come in here," said the captain. 
 
 "All right, bring him in," said Buckley, to the 
 trainer. Then he turned to the wondering men. 
 "Now," said he, "the manager of the other team is 
 coming in here. What he wants I don't know, but I 
 want this team to look pleased about the game. Here 
 he comes. Look happy, damn you, look happy!" 
 
 Every man did his faithful best to suggest the 
 Cheshire Cat, as a man in a long, loose overcoat and 
 felt hat, appeared at the door and paused in momen- 
 tary embarrassment. 
 
 "Come in, Farley," said Nelson. "You wished to 
 see me?" 
 
 297
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Yes," replied the newcomer, "I tried to see you be- 
 fore the first half, but could not get at you. I'm on a 
 rather disagreeable errand, and I'd better come right 
 to the point." 
 
 As he spoke, Farley sidled significantly into a cor- 
 ner, and Nelson and Buckley followed him. Then 
 said Farley, in a low tone, "There's a man somewhere 
 in Columbia football affairs that ought to be kicked 
 out. A complete list of your signals came to me by 
 mail yesterday." 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed Nelson. "I can't believe 
 it." 
 
 "I don't blame you, but here they are," and Farley 
 took a stamped and postmarked envelope from his 
 pocket and handed it to Nelson. 
 
 "Then," said Nelson, "you knew our signals during 
 the first half." 
 
 Farley held up his hand in a deprecatory gesture. 
 "Gently," said he. "We make sportsmen at our col- 
 lege, too. Not one of my team has seen the list except 
 myself, and I give you my word of honor that I 
 haven't read it. We shall win this game if we -can, 
 but it will be without any help from Columbia." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Farley, I was too quick," said 
 Nelson, extending his hand. "Your word is quite 
 sufficient." 
 
 "Well," Farley responded, grasping the offered 
 hand, "I won't keep you any longer. I felt that it 
 would be the square thing to bring this back. Now, 
 it's up to you. See you later, Nelson." 
 
 With a friendly nod to Buckley, the rival manager 
 298
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 strode away, leaving the room in deathly silence, for 
 all the men were consumed with eagerness to know 
 the occasion of Farley's visit. They were not kept 
 waiting. 
 
 "Boys," said Nelson, his eyes blazing wrath such as 
 his intimate friends had never before seen him display, 
 "some member of this squad is no Columbia man, 
 and has got to be kicked off this team before next half. 
 Our signals were sent to Farley." 
 
 He held up the incriminating envelope. With shouts 
 and gasps of astonishment and incredulity, the men 
 leaped to their feet. Buckley's harsh voice rose above 
 the momentary uproar. "Who's done this?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 For a perceptible instant the deathly silence fell 
 again. Then said Thorne, "Perhaps you can tell by 
 the writing." 
 
 Nelson immediately undertook to profit by this sug- 
 gestion, but one of his hands had been badly banged 
 in the play, and, after he had fumbled with the envel- 
 ope a moment, he handed it to Strongheart, saying, 
 "Open it for me." 
 
 Strongheart took the envelope, withdrew the en- 
 closure, glanced at it, and hastily put it behind him. 
 
 "Well," said Billy Saunders, explosively, "who is 
 it? Do we know him?" 
 
 "Let me see it," said Nelson, reaching out his hand 
 for the list. 
 
 Strongheart did not stir. "Don't you think we'd 
 better wait until after the game ?" he suggested. 
 
 Thorne, apparently the embodiment of loyal indig- 
 299
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 nation, cried, "No ! Let's see it now ;" and Nelson, sti! 
 holding out his hand, and speaking with the authority 
 of the commander, said, "Give it to me." 
 
 Looking his captain straight in the eyes, Strong- 
 heart answered, "Not now, Frank." 
 
 "What's the matter?" Nelson demanded, with a 
 frown of deep perplexity. "Do you know the writ- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I do," Strongheart replied, maintaining his atti- 
 tude, and keeping his eyes fixed steadily on Nelson's. 
 
 The captain was terribly disturbed. There was no 
 trace of resentment because his authority had been 
 flouted, for he knew that on the field Strongheart 
 would be as quick to obey as any other ; but the team 
 was in disgrace; the traitor to it and Columbia must 
 be in the room at that moment, facing him and pre- 
 tending innocence ; it was imperative to eliminate him 
 before the final half was played; Strongheart evi- 
 dently knew who he was, and that steady look sug- 
 gested some mysterious but probably good reason for 
 delaying disclosure ; Nelson had profound respect for 
 the soundness of Strongheart's judgment; would it 
 not be wise to follow it now ? Inexpressibly distressed, 
 the captain hesitated for a moment, and his part in 
 the discussion was taken by others. 
 
 "This concerns the whole team," said Thorne, with 
 masterful emphasis, "and the whole team should deal 
 with it." 
 
 "Show it to us, Strongheart," said Livingston. "A 
 man who would do a thing like this deserves no con- 
 sideration." 
 
 300
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Dick," Strongheart responded, "do you advise me 
 to show it?" 
 
 "Yes, of course!" 
 
 "Come!" cried Thorne, as Strongheart still main- 
 tained his statuesque pose, "we can't wait all day." 
 
 Strongheart looked appealingly at Livingston, and 
 then at Nelson, as if beseeching them to throw their 
 influence in favor of his policy of temporary suppres- 
 sion. When neither made a move to support him, he 
 asked, "Why are you so anxious to see it now?" 
 
 The virtuous Thorne took it upon himself to an- 
 swer : "Because we have a right to know that the man 
 whose shoulder is next to ours is an honest man. 
 Come ! Will you show it to us or not ?" 
 
 "I will not," said Strongheart, quietly. 
 
 "If you don't," insinuated Thorne, "it will look as if 
 you had reasons for concealing it." 
 
 "Of course I have reasons, but what do you mean ?" 
 
 "It will look," replied Thorne, "as if the writing 
 were your own." 
 
 For the first time since he put the signals behind his 
 back, Strongheart was stirred. "Thorne!" he cried, 
 his voice ominous with resentment, and he made such 
 a start that Livingston stepped in front of him with a 
 low "Patience, old chap, patience!" 
 
 The other men looked and listened breathlessly. It 
 must be borne in mind that to all, except one, it seemed 
 impossible that the team could be betrayed by one of its 
 own members ; to all, the evidence that betrayal had 
 been attempted was convincing ; in all, therefore, was a 
 tensely eager desire to fix the guilt, and, in the blind 
 
 301
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 mystification of the event, a natural readiness to let 
 suspicion rest on any toward whom the finger of 
 accusation should be pointed. Thorne, facing the 
 emergency of his life, understood the psychology of 
 the crowd, and knew that he must take advantage of 
 it to avert suspicion from himself. 
 
 "Show me the list," said he, with energetic utter- 
 ance, "and if I'm wrong I'll apologize. I've got noth- 
 ing against you personally, but I want to see the man 
 who wrote that kicked off the team." 
 
 Strongheart's stubbornness prevented Thorne from 
 directing suspicion against Livingston, whose loyalty 
 would have been doubted no sooner than the captain's, 
 but it did put Strongheart himself in a very question- 
 able light, and the "crowd," for such the team was at 
 the moment, was beginning to manifest its distrust in 
 unmistakable glances and mutterings. A slight pause 
 followed Thome's last demand, during which Strong- 
 heart showed no disposition to yield, and then Billy 
 Saunders took a hand. 
 
 "Boys," said he, "you know Strongheart. If he's 
 got a reason for not showing this until after the game, 
 it must be all right. I say we leave it until then." 
 
 There was immediate and almost general dissent. 
 Everybody had something to say, and in the confusion 
 of voices, "No, no! Show it to us now," were the 
 words that compelled attention. Strongheart per- 
 ceived the cloud of distrust that was settling upon him. 
 He turned appealingly to Livingston. 
 
 "Dick," said he, "you do not doubt me, do you?" 
 
 "Old chap," Livingston answered, "if the signals 
 302
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 had been in my writing, would you have doubted me ?" 
 
 "No, Dick," said Strongheart, firmly, "I would not." 
 
 Livingston turned away with a slight shrug of his 
 shoulders, that told more plainly than words his un- 
 shaken confidence in Strongheart, and Nelson, who 
 had now had time to think, said, "I don't doubt you, 
 either, Strongheart, but we must make some expla- 
 nation to the team. Come ! out with it." 
 
 "I have no explanation to offer," Strongheart re- 
 plied; "but," addressing the team, "I give you my 
 word of honor " 
 
 "It is your honor that is in question," Thorne inter- 
 rupted, sharply. 
 
 "I shall not answer for it to you, Thorne," said 
 Strongheart. 
 
 The atmosphere tingled with anger. Every man 
 would have been glad of an opportunity to strike 
 somebody. Buckley, who had asked them to get mad, 
 bit his lip to repress his anxiety lest the real passions 
 now aroused should militate against effective team 
 work in the next half. He glanced at his watch. There 
 was yet time for a settlement of the unhappy affair, 
 if only the fellows would get down to it and cease use- 
 less word play. 
 
 "Thorne," said Nelson, his tone sharp with exas- 
 peration, "the team has elected officers to manage its 
 affairs, and we don't care for your help " 
 
 "Then," Thorne retorted hotly, "why don't the of- 
 ficers manage its affairs, and not let an Indian come 
 here out of a wigwam and run things to suit himself." 
 
 This provoked a general outcry. The captain had 
 303
 
 STRONCHEART 
 
 yielded his authority and judgment to the Indian, the 
 very mention of whose race was all that was needed to 
 solidify the hostility that had arisen against him. So 
 there were rebellious demands for an immediate dis- 
 play of the incriminating list, and Nelson was hard 
 put to it to restore order. 
 
 "Boys," said he, when he had regained their atten- 
 tion, "it's better to handle a matter like this with the 
 greatest secrecy. Meet at my house tomorrow at five 
 o'clock and we'll talk things over. Until then, not a 
 word out of this team." 
 
 Livingston threw his influence in favor of the cap- 
 tain's policy, saying, "And remember, boys, that 
 Strongheart has not admitted that it is his writing." 
 
 "Pooh !" exclaimed Thorne, "that's a trick to use to- 
 morrow, and I demand, in the name of the team, that 
 at least one man see that list now. Then we shall 
 know tomorrow that it hasn't been changed." 
 
 Again Thome's suggestion proved to be popular, 
 and the men made such a noise recommending it 
 that Nelson felt constrained to yield to it as a 
 compromise. 
 
 "Strongheart," he said, "will you show that list to 
 Billy?" 
 
 "Yes," Strongheart replied. 
 
 Big Billy strode up to him, speaking, as he went, to 
 Thorne and the rest of the team, "I'll look at it for you, 
 but I want to say right here that if it's signed with his 
 name and has got two witnesses, I won't believe it." 
 
 Strongheart drew Billy as far apart from the rest as 
 the limits of the room permitted, and whispered, "Your 
 
 304
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 word of honor, Billy, that you won't tell whose writing 
 this is?" 
 
 "Sure," Billy responded; "let's see the thing." 
 
 Their backs to the others, Strongheart displayed the 
 paper. 
 
 "Judas Iscariot!" gasped Billy, "that's Dick's writ- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Hush!" warned Strongheart, "if Dick knows a 
 word of this he will go all to pieces, and we'll lose the 
 game." 
 
 "So that's why you're taking the blame !" said Billy, 
 in an awestruck whisper. 
 
 "We've got to win this game, Billy. That's the only 
 consideration any of us can afford to recognize just 
 now." 
 
 "Strongheart, I'm proud to know you," and Bill}' 
 made as if he would return to the team, his duty of 
 inspection over, but a ghastly thought struck him, and 
 he halted. "Holy cat !" he whispered, "if that's Dick's 
 writing, it must be the list he gave me !" 
 
 "How did it get out of your hands?" 
 
 "Why " and Billy stammered awkwardly, "I've 
 got to keep my face shut as much as you have, Strong- 
 heart, for if I squeal now it lets in a girl." 
 
 "A girl?" 
 
 "Yes, I gave the list to er a girl, and she's made a 
 fool of me. But it isn't right for you to take the blame, 
 and I'll tell the fellows" 
 
 "No!" Strongheart interrupted, decisively. "Give 
 it a half minute's thought, and you'll see that it won't 
 help matters now. You can't expose the girl, and if 
 
 305
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 you try to help me out it will only make Thorne and 
 the rest all the surer that I'm guilty." 
 
 "Then," said Billy, sombrely, "we've both got to 
 keep mum to shield a woman's honor, but I wish I 
 could take the disgrace for you. I Oh ! damn every- 
 body!" and in despair of expressing his true senti- 
 ments, Billy returned to the team. 
 
 He found to his dismay that mischief had been bus} 
 there during his brief colloquy with Strongheart. The 
 team was now divided into two camps, one of which, 
 when Billy returned, consisted only of the captain and 
 Livingston. All the others, instigated by Thorne, and 
 falling readily under his aggressive leadership, were 
 for the immediate disgrace of the culprit; and they 
 were convinced that the traitor among them was the 
 Indian. If it had been any time but the middle of a 
 game, Nelson would have resigned the captaincy at 
 once rather than take the course that the situation forced 
 upon him ; but he knew that resignation would stir up 
 worse feeling, and that out of it might come the election 
 of Thorne in his place ; and, quite aside from the intense 
 dislike of the man that the episode had suddenly engen- 
 dered, a dislike untainted with suspicion, Nelson felt 
 that Thorne had no real capacity for command in the 
 field, and that nothing could prejudice Columbia's 
 chances in the second half more than his relinquish- 
 ment of authority. It was bitter to reflect, as he had 
 to, that his authority in the quarters went for nothing, 
 for he was faced by plain, undisguised rebellion. The 
 other fellows said flatly that they would not play the 
 game with Strongheart in the team. They presumed 
 
 306
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 to dictate to their captain, but, they would have ar- 
 gued, had it been necessary to argue, Nelson had sub- 
 ordinated his judgment to the Indian, who had re- 
 belled successfully; but there was no time for argu- 
 ment, and the temper of the men was not suited to calm 
 reasoning. To save Strongheart from disgrace re- 
 quired a captain of iron will and as great indifference 
 to the amenities as Buckley, the coach, displayed ; and 
 Nelson, an efficient captain on the field, respected and 
 obeyed under ordinary circumstances, lacked the 
 harsh, dominating qualities needed for this emergency. 
 He had too much of the gentleman and too little of 
 the brute in him to subdue insubordination. Cold- 
 blooded Buckley, looking on at the scene, gnashed his 
 teeth in impotent rage, for this was a feature of the 
 game in which he had no right to interfere upon any 
 circumstance. 
 
 Despite all that preceded, the blow fell on Strong- 
 heart with appalling suddenness. Turning to the 
 team, after pocketing the signals, he said, "Boys, I 
 want to say one thing. I do not blame you for doubt- 
 ing my word, for the thing must look very suspicious ; 
 but if you watch my play next half, you will see which 
 college I want to win." 
 
 The men stirred restlessly, and averted their eyes. 
 
 "Strongheart," said Nelson, hesitatingly, "I'm afraid 
 hang it, old man, you must know what I've got to 
 say, and how it hurts to say it, but, as captain of the 
 team, I have no choice." 
 
 Strongheart's eyes sped from one to another of the 
 sullen faces in the group. Then he looked at his cap- 
 
 307
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 tain. "Do you mean," he asked slowly, "that they will 
 not let me play next half?" 
 
 "Yes, and I can't help it," Nelson admitted, his face 
 hot with shame at his impotency. 
 "But, Frank," Strongheart protested, "do you re- 
 alize that this means disgrace?" 
 
 "It's as hard for me as it is for you, old man," the 
 captain replied, and then, turning to the team, "Boys, 
 don't you think we'd better keep Strongheart in the 
 game?" 
 
 "Let's keep him in, boys," added Billy. 
 
 There was a hubbub of replies, all to much the same 
 effect, that it would not do to risk the half with a 
 player whose loyalty was in doubt; and, while the 
 angry debate continued, Strongheart, numb with hu- 
 miliation, yet saw that the salvation of his honor rested 
 in his own hands. He had but to display the incrim- 
 inating list to spare himself the worst fate that can 
 befall a student, and throw the onus of disgrace upon 
 another his friend. 
 
 "It's terrible to disgrace a man," cried Livingston. 
 "Have we the right to do it on mere suspicion?" 
 
 Thorne answered him : "It is necessary for the good 
 of the team." 
 
 "But we need him," urged Nelson. "The good of 
 the team requires that he play." 
 
 "We don't know that he'll play the game," Thorne 
 retorted. "It's too dangerous, and we haven't the 
 right to risk it, have we, boys?" 
 
 The chorus of answers showed that the team had 
 become a rabble swayed by but one feeling, desire for 
 
 308
 
 STRONCHEART 
 
 victory ; blinded by suspicion, they could see no chance 
 for victory with their best individual player in the 
 field. Their madness was voiced by one who stepped 
 from the ranks and cried, "Kick him off the team !" 
 
 Billy rushed upon this man and threw him half 
 across the room. "That's about enough from you," 
 said the big fellow. "Now you hear me chirp for a 
 little. Some of this push is going to be at Frank's 
 tonight, and Strongheart's going to be with us, and I 
 want to remark right here that if any yap out of this 
 gang lets a hint of this business get in front of his 
 teeth, he'll stop going to parties for about three 
 months." 
 
 "Look here, Billy," said Thorne, "you're making 
 too much fuss about the redskin. I shall say what I 
 please without your permission." 
 
 Billy glared contemptuously at Thorne for a second, 
 and continued his address to the team. "Understand 
 me," he said. "If Strongheart doesn't play next half, 
 it's because of an accident. It was found when we got 
 to the dressing-room that Strongheart had gone lame 
 again, see? We all wanted him to pl-y, but he simply 
 couldn't, catch that? As for you, Ralph Thorne, if 
 you open your mouth about this tonight, whether 
 the girls are present or not, I'll turn you inside out." 
 
 Buckley at last strode into the angry group with his 
 watch in his hand. "Stop this infernal private scrap- 
 ping," said he. "We've got a game to play, and time's 
 about up. Get ready, men, get ready." 
 
 The men immediately began to get their accoutre- 
 ments in order, and Nelson, such a lump in his throat 
 
 309
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 that he could hardly speak, approached the Indian, 
 looking as he felt, not only sorry, but ashamed. 
 
 "Strongheart, old man," he began 
 
 "It's all right, Frank," Strongheart interrupted 
 calmly. "You had to do it. You had to save the 
 game, and it was the only way." 
 
 Nelson shook his hand and turned away. Billy came 
 up to have his say: "Strongheart, you're saving this 
 game by keeping Dick in it. There are some things 
 a fellow can't say, old man, but I want to tell you 
 that God help the man who plays opposite me next 
 half!" 
 
 He turned away abruptly, embarrassed by his own 
 display of feeling. The men were going out. The last 
 to speak to Strongheart was Livingston, his brow 
 wrinkled with his unexpressed wrath. 
 
 "Is there anything I can do, old chap?" he asked, 
 his voice suggestive of despair. 
 
 "Yes," replied Strongheart eagerly; "play football 
 as you never played before, Dick ! I suppose the girl 
 you spoke of is in the grand-stand? Make her proud 
 of you! Hit the line low, and don't get penalized. 
 Win the game, Dick, win!" 
 
 Livingston gave the Indian's hand a hard grip, and 
 hurried out after the others. 
 
 Then Strongheart, stifling the storm of resentment 
 within him until its only manifestation was a dull pain 
 at his heart, went to a window and watched through 
 all the long forty-five minutes while his comrades 
 fought for the victory. Long it seemed impossible of 
 attainment. Repeatedly the enemy forced Columbia 
 
 310
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 back; more than once Thorne blundered at a critical 
 moment; once defeat was saved, after such a misplay, 
 by Nelson's singular ability to see the needs on th 
 field and his alertness in meeting them. Once there 
 was a pause, while the man who had the ill luck to play 
 opposite to Billy Saunders was carried off the field, 
 and a substitute put in his place. And at last, just in 
 the nick of time, he saw Dick make a brilliant run, saw 
 the opposing fullback tackle, saw big Billy butt in, and, 
 laying hold of both Dick and the enemy, drag them and 
 the ball across the line, winning the game by one touch- 
 down. 
 
 The roaring grand-stand did not hear it, but mingled 
 with the hysterical cries that split the sky there was a 
 shrill, long-drawn falsetto warwhoop from the Indian 
 player, who had forgotten his own bitter disgrace in 
 the triumph of his team. 
 
 311
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 RACE PREJUDICE 
 
 The subsidence of the excitement attending the close 
 of the game gave the emotions and thoughts that had 
 been subconsciously active all through the play op- 
 portunity to manifest themselves. Strongheart's re- 
 sentment was intense against Thorne. But for him, 
 the men doubtless would have given accord to Nelson's 
 policy of temporary suppression, and Strongheart's 
 honor would not have been questioned. Thorne also 
 had spoken contemptuously of Strongheart's race, and, 
 although none of the others openly approved the in- 
 sult, it rankled and was the direct, final incentive to 
 solving the problem with regard to Dorothy. 
 
 Strongheart was not conscious of the precise rela- 
 tion of cause and effect in this matter. Resentment 
 had been subordinated to loyalty to the team during 
 the second half; love had been utterly out of mind 
 from the time the game began. Now his mind was, 
 to his own apprehension, concentrated on the mystery 
 of the signals, with a deep, conscious desire to throw 
 back the insinuation of treachery upon his accuser; 
 but beneath it, love was at work, demanding that the 
 greatest possible proof of faith in him should be given. 
 It was not enough that Nelson, and Livingston, and 
 Billy Saunders should stand by him; he remembered 
 
 312
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 gratefully how those sturdy young felfows shook his 
 hand, how they looked at him, how they cursed under 
 their breath, or openly, because if they had not cursed 
 they must have wept. But it was not enough, although 
 Strongheart was not yet conscious of any deficiency 
 other than the confidence of the team. That had been 
 shaken by Thome, and with the discovery of the truth 
 about the signals, that faith would be recovered, no 
 matter how it might affect the accuser. It was the 
 very manifestation of sympathy and faith on the part 
 of three loyal friends that inflamed the desire for still 
 further manifestation of faith and sympathy; and so, 
 while he bent his mental energies to unraveling the 
 mystery of the signals, his heart was nursing its de- 
 mand, and the critical moment was much nearer than 
 Strongheart dreamed. 
 
 When the men returned, flushed and happy, to the 
 dressing-room, Strongheart waited only to congratu- 
 late the three who had stood by him, and then asked 
 Billy Saunders to walk out with him. The others, too 
 exultant to give much thought to the Indian and the 
 signals, nevertheless averted their eyes and looked un- 
 comfortable when he passed them. The room was 
 still for a moment, and Nelson said, "Remember, boys, 
 we've got an unpleasant matter to discuss. Everybody 
 must be at my house, tomorrow." 
 
 "Yes, that's right," said Billy, turning in the door- 
 way, "and let me chuck in my reminder, too. Strong- 
 heart didn't play in the second half because of an acci- 
 dent. If any yap forgets that, I'll turn Frank's draw- 
 ing-room into a slaughter house." 
 
 313
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 There was no response, for the situation was too 
 serious to admit of jesting, and not even Thome was 
 quite prepared for a retort. Thorne least of all. He 
 was absorbed just then in worry over his finances, for 
 the hard-won victory left him heavily in debt. He 
 had borrowed so much to bet on the game, that the 
 thousands that Livingston would now be able to pay 
 him in liquidation of his I-O-Us would not cover half 
 the deficiency. The only thing left to Thorne was 
 hope that Livingston might still be disgraced through 
 connecting him with the dispatch of the signals to 
 Farley, and if that could be accomplished, he would 
 care little what happened to Strongheart. 
 
 "I say, Strongheart," said Billy, as they went out 
 of doors, "couldn't you limp a little just to give 
 color" 
 
 "No, Billy, I can't," Strongheart interposed. "You 
 can make such explanation as suits you for the present, 
 but I mean to reserve myself until the truth is known, 
 whatever it is, and that's what you and I must discuss 
 at once. We start on this sure ground: that Dick 
 Livingston had nothing to do with sending those sig- 
 nals to Farley." 
 
 "Of course he didn't. It was the girl. Hang it, 
 old man," and Billy grew pathetic, "don't you see 
 how I've been let in ? I thought the girl was an angel, 
 see? I'd 'a' mashed my own head if even a peep of a 
 thought had got into it that she could do anything 
 wrong. But she's done me dirt, don't you see? She 
 got me when I was in a sentimental mood to let her 
 have the signals, and then she sent 'em to Farley be- 
 
 314
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 cause he's the fellow who's the big noise with her. She 
 just played me so that she could help my rival, and I 
 never suspecting that she was even acquainted with 
 Farley." 
 
 Strongheart listened attentively. Such a romantic 
 plot as Billy's grieved brain evolved was quite as rea- 
 sonable as that a footballer should betray his team. 
 It might be, then, that Billy was right. 
 
 "I dislike to seem inquisitive," said Strongheart, 
 "but if you and I are to work together to clear up 
 this thing, we must have all the facts before us. Won't 
 you tell me who the girl was ?" 
 
 Billy hung his head. "I'd rather have all this dis- 
 grace chucked onto me," he muttered. 
 
 "Come," said Strongheart, smiling, and laying a 
 hand on the big fellow's shoulder, "everybody knows 
 there's only one girl in the world who could get you 
 in such a sentimental frame of mind. Now, Molly 
 Liv " 
 
 "See here!" exclaimed Billy, hoarsely, "even you 
 mustn't say a word against her. I can't stand it." 
 
 Strongheart put both his hands on Billy's shoulders, 
 swung him about, and for a moment they looked into 
 each others' eyes, the Indian smiling, and at length 
 bursting into a laugh. 
 
 "Billy, old fellow," he cried, "it isn't possible for 
 Molly to play traitor to the team, and you know it. 
 Why ! she's more daft on Columbia than any of us. 
 Molly sell out Columbia? Nonsense! She probably 
 doesn't know Farley from a subway guard. There's 
 some other explanation, Billy." 
 
 315
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Well/* said Billy, "it beats me. I haven't said 
 she was the one, you know " 
 
 "No, we won't either of us say so. You gave the 
 signals to Molly. I say so much. I don't accuse her 
 of anything, not even carelessness, but somehow the 
 signals got to Farley. Now you tell me every detail 
 I don't mean your sentimental scene, but just how 
 you got hold of the signals in the first place." 
 
 Billy described his arrival at the rooms of Nelson 
 and Livingston. "Dick yelled that the signals were 
 in his desk, top drawer, and I got 'em. That's all 
 there was to it," he concluded. 
 
 "Were you ilone in the room at the time?" asked 
 Strongheart. 
 
 "Yes hold on, though. I'm a liar. Thome was 
 there." 
 
 "Oh! Thome was there. When did he arrive?" 
 
 "Don't know. He was there when I got there, sit- 
 ting on the desk, if I remember right." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 ''Yes, certainly. That is, he was the only one in 
 the room when I went in. You see, the other fellows 
 were in their bedrooms " and Billy again went over 
 the details of the episode. 
 
 "All right," said Strongheart, finally, "you're will- 
 ing to make this your first business, aren't you ?" 
 
 "Sure! Until I can think that Molly" 
 
 "Molly is the angel you believed. Be sure of that. 
 I'll have a little talk with her, if you don't mind. Now, 
 you get after Dick, and find out all you can. Ask 
 him how many lists of signals he wrote. If more 
 
 316
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 than one, what did he do with them. Don't on any 
 account let him suspect that this list is in his hand. 
 As soon as you've got all the information that's to be 
 had, look me up." 
 
 Long before the great game, the Nelsons had ar- 
 ranged to have a dance at their house on the evening 
 of the day. It was to be either a dance of jubilation, 
 or a consolation dance, according to the issue of the 
 game, but, as the boys put it, it was to be a dance 
 anyway, and absenteeism was unthinkable. The func- 
 tion was in full swing when Strongheart arrived, and 
 it chanced that soon afterward he encountered Doro- 
 thy in the library. 
 
 "I am so glad to see you," she exclaimed. "I feared 
 your accident might prevent you from dancing, or 
 even coming to see us." 
 
 "I do not think I will attempt to dance, Miss Nel- 
 son," he responded gravely, "but if you will be kind 
 enough to give me a dance some time this evening, I 
 should like to ask you to sit it out with me." 
 
 "Gladly," said she. "I am not engaged for the next 
 one. Will that do?" 
 
 "It cannot come too soon for me." 
 
 There were others in the library at the moment, but 
 the call for the next dance sounded, and all dispersed, 
 leaving Strongheart and Dorothy alone. They sat be- 
 fore the fireplace. 
 
 "It's pitifully incongruous," said Dorothy, laughing 
 lightly, "but this reminds me of the evening when we 
 sat before the fire by the lake shore in the wilderness 
 and listened to distant music. How flat and artificial 
 
 317
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 the music we now hear sounds by contrast, doesn't it? 
 But I suppose it's equally appropriate to its surround- 
 ings, artificial, all of them. We have no such evenings 
 here." 
 
 "You have them, but you do not use them," said he. 
 
 "True. I find I can do so only in memory. You 
 can hardly imagine the relief it is to me, when I am 
 tired of the noise and rush of the city, to think of the 
 silent forests, the vast, comprehensive peace of your 
 land." 
 
 "And its solitude, its loneliness?" said he. 
 
 "Yes," doubtfully, for she was conscious that she 
 did not wholly grasp his subtle meaning, "but solitude 
 is often a blessing. It is said that there is no such 
 loneliness as that of the individual in a great city, but 
 that is always due to the individual's lack of harmony 
 with his surroundings. How different the loneliness 
 of the forest ! There the individual is at fault if he is 
 unhappy, for great Mother Nature waits to comfort 
 him. He does not need to cry to her, for she holds 
 forth her consolation without the asking; she folds 
 her arms about him, and he must be dull indeed, if he 
 does not hear her whispering benedictions." 
 
 "And that is my land ?" said he, half inquiringly. 
 
 "So it seems to me, Strongheart, in memory of my 
 brief visit there." 
 
 "Would you like to go there again ?" 
 
 His voice had dropped to an apprehensive whisper, 
 but before she could answer his question, he stood up 
 abruptly and spoke in his natural tone. "Do not an- 
 swer, Miss Nelson." said he, "for I would not seem 
 
 318
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 to lead you to an admission that you might a moment 
 later like to withdraw. I want you to revisit my coun- 
 try. I dare to want you to go with me and stay. You 
 have the spirit of our forests. The voice of the stream 
 tells the same story to you as to me. You understand 
 the message the wind bears when it whips the spray 
 from the lake. Miss Nelson, you understand me, aye, 
 better than I understood myself. You do not know 
 that you saved me once. I was slipping away from 
 my ambition, from faithfulness to my mission, and 
 your voice recalled me to myself. If I am worthy of 
 any regard, I owe it to you. But I am not now speak- 
 ing in gratitude, for I loved you long before I had 
 occasion to be grateful. From the moment you came 
 into my life I knew that your love was the only 
 thing in the world worth having. My mission 
 seems small compared to the giant love you have 
 awakened." 
 
 "You love me ?" said Dorothy, as one in a dream. 
 
 "I love you with a love as great as my forest-clad 
 mountains, and as pure as the air about them. I saw 
 the love of my land grow upon you, and I have dared 
 dream that I might share it." 
 
 He paused, summoning all his powers of self-repres- 
 sion that he might endure the denial her silence seemed 
 to presage. She sat motionless, her eyes strained upon 
 the glowing coal; it seemed as if she had ceased to 
 breathe. 
 
 "This has been in my mind a long time, Miss Nel- 
 son," said he, presently, "but perhaps I should not 
 have spoken yet, or at all. It must seem abrupt to you 
 
 319
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 who have not thought of it, and I shall be sorry if I 
 have intruded on your pleasure " 
 
 "Strongheart," she interrupted, rising and looking 
 at him in that straightforward way so characteristic of 
 her, and so baffling to those who could not meet her 
 with equal straightforwardness, "Strongheart, I have 
 thought of it, and I have dreaded the time when we 
 must speak of it." 
 
 "Then you knew that I loved you?" 
 
 "I felt it, and I believed that some time you would 
 speak. I cannot plead surprise, my friend, and yet 
 can you forgive me? I am unable to answer you." 
 
 "Miss Nelson ! Do you realize what you say ? You 
 have known, you have thought of it, and you cannot 
 say, no?" 
 
 She shrank from him a little, for the man's logic 
 and impetuosity together were disconcerting. Perceiv- 
 ing her movement, slight though it was, he immedi- 
 ately reassumed his statuesque pose, but no self-control 
 could dull the fire of hope in his eyes. 
 
 "I do not say no, I do not say yes," she responded 
 hurriedly. "Now that you have spoken I shall be able 
 to understand my own feelings, for you have the right 
 to a plain, unequivocal answer, and I have no right 
 or desire to keep you waiting. But I must have a little 
 time, Strongheart. Don't, O, my friend! don't build 
 up castles of hope that I may have to shatter ! Let it 
 be as if you had not spoken, but come tomorrow 
 and I will give you my answer. Will you, Strong- 
 heart?" 
 
 "I will come tomorrow," said he, and she hurried 
 320
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 from the room lest his appealing eyes should overcome 
 her then and there. 
 
 Strongheart strode the length of the library and 
 back again. The impulse was on him to go out and 
 run for miles, but there was work to do. It was not 
 love that had brought him to this house, but treachery, 
 and that must be his business now until it was ex- 
 posed. He had not seen Billy since they parted immedi- 
 ately after the game, and he began to wonder what 
 had happened to the big fellow. It was possible that 
 Billy was in the house now, and Strongheart was about 
 to go through the rooms in search of him, when Molly 
 came running to him. 
 
 "Oh, Strongheart," she cried, "wasn't it glorious? 
 Didn't the boys fight like heroes? And what a pity 
 that you should have had an accident! I was scared 
 half to death when I saw you were out of the second 
 half. Tell me all about it" 
 
 "What, little one?" asked Strongheart, smiling 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 "Why! your accident, of course! Everybody is 
 just dying to know what was the matter." 
 
 "Tell them to wait a little. There's something else 
 I want to speak of now, something tremendously im- 
 portant and serious, Molly." 
 
 She stepped back and looked him over with great 
 solemnity. "It does sound as if he were going to pro- 
 pose," said she. 
 
 "I'm not, Molly. There's a good fellow in my way, 
 and I know I should have no chance against hirw.- 
 Come, let's be serious. I'm going to seem might^jr 
 
 321
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 impertinent and put our friendship to, a severe test in 
 order to save somebody you know from disgrace. ' 
 
 Molly was all attention, for she was actually a little 
 frightened. "Is it something about about Dick ?" she 
 gasped. 
 
 "It might be about me, little one. Here's the ques- 
 tion: How did you come to lose the list of signals 
 Billy Saunders gave you?" 
 
 "Why! I didn't lose it," Molly exclaimed. Then 
 she blushed furiously and demanded, "How did you 
 know Billy gave me a list?" 
 
 "As a matter qf honest fact, Molly, I guessed it. 
 Billy didn't tell me, and nobody knows anything about 
 it. If you didn't lose the list, what became of it ? Re- 
 member, it's tremendously important to somebody that 
 I should know. How did the list get out of your 
 hands?" 
 
 "You frighten me with your talk of disgrace, 
 Strongheart. Am I to blame? Of course I know it 
 was a silly thing to do to ask Billy for the signals, 
 but I couldn't possibly think it would do any harm. 
 They haven't been out of my hands since he gave them 
 to me. I had a pocket made for the list in my dress. 
 Here it is." 
 
 She handed an envelope to Strongheart, who hur- 
 riedly open it. His heart leaped, for the writing was 
 not Livingston's. 
 
 "Molly," said he, "will you let me keep this?" 
 
 "Will it save somebody from disgrace?" she asked 
 tremulously. 
 
 "It will, little one, and I'll say just this much 
 322
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 that Billy Saunders isn't now and hasn't been in any 
 danger of disgrace." 
 
 "Oh!" and again the blushes overspread her face, 
 Strongheart could not repress a smile as he perceived 
 how greatly relieved she was. "Good for Billy!" he 
 thought; "he's a winner." 
 
 "This must be our secret for awhile," he said. "No- 
 body is to know that you gave the list to Billy, and if 
 you want to do me a real favor you will look up Billy 
 and tell him I want to see him." 
 
 "Here, Strongheart?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll wait here." 
 
 Events moved rapidly from that moment, for all the 
 parties to the matters pending were in the house, 
 Molly had hardly left the library by one door when 
 Billy strode in at another. 
 
 "Gee!" said he, "I've been looking for you for an 
 hour." 
 
 "Well," asked Strongheart, "how many lists did 
 Dick write?" 
 
 "He wrote only one list, and that was the one I got." 
 
 "Good! that simplifies matters." 
 
 "Yes, doesn't it?" Billy returned with immense 
 irony. "It puts things up to me all right. I'm in the 
 interesting position of letting my list get into Farley's 
 hands. Oh, yes ! Matters are simplified, all right." 
 
 "Look here, Billy," said Strongheart, handing him 
 Molly's list, "do you know where I got this ?" 
 
 "No. It's not the one in Dick's writing we got from 
 Farley." 
 
 "Of course not. This is the one you gave to Molly. 
 323
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 I got it from her just now. It hasn't left her hands 
 since you gave it to her." 
 
 "Judas Iscariot !" gasped Billy. "I haven't dared go 
 near her since I thought she Gee! what a multi- 
 tudinous ass I have been ! I must go and tell her so 
 at once, or something equally reassuring, to explain 
 how and why I've been dodging her " 
 
 "Hold on, Billy," called Strongheart. "Molly knows 
 nothing of the trouble. She can wait, and this busi- 
 ness can't" 
 
 "Right you are. What's the next move ?" 
 
 "I want you to wait in this room until Thorne comes 
 in. He's sure to do so in the course of the evening. 
 When he comes in, you must send a telegram to 
 somebody. You cannot write it yourself because 
 your arm is lame. So you get Thorne to write it 
 for you." 
 
 "I tumble," said Billy. "What's the message?" 
 
 Strongheart reflected a moment and then said, 
 "Your message must be: 'Left right after end of 
 game. Awful rush. Back at half past ten.' That'll 
 do, I think. Sign it in any way you like." 
 
 "Address fictitious?" asked Billy. 
 
 "Just as you like." 
 
 Billy repeated the words two or three times over, 
 and when he was sure of them, "All right," said he, 
 "but it's too deep for yours cordially." 
 
 He lit a cigarette and dropped into an easy chair as 
 if patiently resolved for a tedious wait ; but he had 
 hardly settled comfortably when Thorne and Ross, an- 
 other of the team, came in for a smoke. Thorne 
 
 324
 
 STRONGHEARY 
 
 ignored Strongheart, who stood by the fire, and ad- 
 dressed himself to Billy, saying, "Well, how is Lady 
 Nicotine after a ten weeks' absence?" 
 
 "Right up to the limit," Billy replied, blowing out a 
 great cloud of smoke. Then, with a well-feigned start 
 of surprise, "By Jove ! I wanted to send a telegram, 
 and it's almost too late. Got a pencil, Thorne ?" 
 
 "Yes," and Thorne handed a pencil to Billy, who 
 drew up to the table, took a telegraph blank from the 
 rack and prepared to write. 
 
 "Wow !" he exclaimed after a pretense at an effort, 
 "I can't use this wing. Just write it for me, will you, 
 Thorne?" 
 
 Thorne complied and, at Billy's dictation, addressed 
 "W. G. Abbott, Fifth Avenue Hotel," and wrote the 
 message that Strongheart had invented. He signed 
 it "Billy," at that worthy's request, and then strolled 
 to the fireplace to light a cigar, Strongheart making 
 way for him. 
 
 "I'll send the message for you, Billy," said Strong- 
 heart, taking the paper from Billy's hand and adding 
 in a whisper, "Get Ross away." 
 
 Billy was in a maze of mystification, but he had the 
 habit of obedience, as well as implicit confidence in 
 Strongheart, and in short order he persuaded Ross to 
 leave the room with him. Thorne, perceiving that he 
 was alone with Strongheart, laid down his cigar pre- 
 paratory to leaving also. 
 
 "Finish your smoke, Thorne," said Strongheart, 
 composedly. "I want to have a talk with you. Isn't 
 this list of signals in your writing?" 
 
 325
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Thorne looked at the list and, with perfect calmness 
 answered, "No." 
 
 "Don't lie to me, Thorne," said Strongheart. "It 
 will not help you now." 
 
 The plotter maintained his composure admirably. 
 "You seem to think it's in my writing," said he. "All 
 right. It's a matter of indifference to me what you 
 think." 
 
 "Perhaps," Strongheart suggested, "you won't be so 
 indifferent when I give these two papers to the meet- 
 ing tomorrow." 
 
 "What two. papers ?" Thome demanded sharply. 
 
 "This list of signals," Strongheart replied, "and this 
 telegram which Billy dictated to you in the presence 
 of two persons. The telegram contains the words 
 'end,' 'left,' 'right/ 'rush/ 'back/ and 'half.' Those 
 words occur also in the list, and the handwriting is 
 identical. Both papers were written by the same hand. 
 Thorne, you sent Dick's list to Farley, and I can 
 prove it." 
 
 Thome's control of himself slipped steadily away 
 during this recital of the incriminating facts. He 
 threw his cigar down suddenly and made a start for 
 Strongheart as if he would assault him. Strongheart 
 stood perfectly motionless, and Thorne halted, irreso- 
 lute. 
 
 "So," continued Strongheart, "I tell you now that 
 tomorrow afternoon I shall show the team that you 
 are a blackguard." 
 
 "Look here," cried Thorne, quivering with anger, 
 "you're interfering too much in my affairs. If you 
 
 326
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 give me away, I'll show Frank and Dick how you have 
 betrayed their confidence." 
 
 "In what way ?" asked Strongheart, undisturbed. 
 
 "By making love to Frank's sister," said Thorne. 
 
 Strongheart frowned. "We will not use a lady's 
 name in this discussion," he said. 
 
 "Well, whether we use her name or not, you know 
 I am right. I've watched you.' T 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Thorne pointed to the papers in Strongheart's hand. 
 "You have the evidence," said he, significantly. "Pre- 
 sent a part of it and you put Dick in disgrace, for he 
 will have no way of meeting it. If you choose to 
 clear him, you help your rival." 
 
 "My rival? Dick?" exclaimed Strongheart in un- 
 disguised surprise. 
 
 "You can't make me believe you didn't know that," 
 said Thorne. 
 
 Strongheart stood as before, perfectly still, but his 
 mind took rapid retrospection of all that had passed 
 since Dorothy came into his life. In the light of 
 Thome's words, Dick's friendly companionship with 
 Dorothy took on another complexion. Marvelous that 
 he had not thought of it before, for why should Dick 
 not love her? It would be more marvelous if he 
 did not. 
 
 "If Dick is the man she loves," said Strongheart, 
 "she will choose him." 
 
 "But if you are the man she loves," Thorne snarled, 
 "they will prevent you from marrying her." 
 
 "Why?" and not even Thorne could doubt the sin-
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 cerity of the question, for Strongheart could not con- 
 ceive the possibility that his friends would repudiate 
 him. 
 
 "Because you are an Indian," Thorne answered, 
 and Strongheart shrugged his shoulders slightly in 
 token of his incredulity. Indeed, the answer was, to 
 him, too absurd for comment. His indifference mad- 
 dened Thorne, who continued hotly, "If those boys 
 knew you'd made love to her they'd kick you out of 
 this house." 
 
 "Thome," said Strongheart, "you lie !" 
 
 It was not Thome's policy to resent the insult. 
 "You think they are your friends?" he persisted. 
 "Stand behind the curtain in the window there and 
 see what they will do when I tell them." 
 
 Strongheart advanced slowly upon his tormentor. 
 "I tell you, you lie," said he. "You lie, and you are 
 a coward!" 
 
 "It is you who are afraid," Thorne retorted desper- 
 ately, "for you know in your heart that what I say is 
 true." 
 
 "We shall see," and Strongheart strode to a door, 
 which he opened, and called, "Frank ! Dick !" 
 
 The chums came in together, Nelson asking, "What 
 is it, old fellow?" 
 
 "I have been told," said Strongheart, "that I betray 
 your confidence by loving your sister. I have loved her 
 since the first time I saw her, here, in this house. If she 
 accepts my love, I ask your consent to our mar " 
 
 "Good God!" gasped Livingston, "how could you 
 think"
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Wait, Dick," said Nelson, laying a hand on his 
 chum's arm, "this is my affair." 
 
 Nelson may have feared that Livingston would so 
 far lose control of himself as to strike Strongheart, 
 for he was no longer blind to Dick's worship of Doro- 
 thy; but Livingston really was helpless with amaze- 
 ment and sudden weakness. Love and friendship were 
 knocked from under at one blow, and, for the moment, 
 he knew not what to grasp for support. 
 
 "I have also been told," Strongheart added in a 
 tone of deep sorrow, "that you are my rival, Dick. 
 Believe me, I did not know it. If Dorothy should prefer 
 you to me, I should be the first to congratulate you/' 
 
 "That isn't the point," said Nelson, sharply. 
 "Whether she cares for Dick, or not, you cannot speak 
 of love to her." 
 
 "I have spoken, Frank." 
 
 "What!" cried Nelson, and it seemed as if he, too, 
 might forget himself. 
 
 Strongheart looked at him in pained bewilderment. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you have dared to make 
 love to her?" asked Dick, slowly. 
 
 "Why should I not?" Strongheart returned. 
 
 "Why ! Strongheart, old chap, you you " Living- 
 ston could hardly stammer through his answer, for 
 he, too, was profoundly bewildered. He could not 
 conceive the fact that Strongheart should not know. 
 "You are an Indian," he concluded. 
 
 "You see," said Thorne as, with a supercilidus 
 shrug, he withdrew to the end of the room where he 
 remained to see the scene out. 
 
 329
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Livingston's answer left Strong-heart momentarily 
 speechless. His consternation was so evident, his 
 bearing so free from conscious error, that Nelson's 
 anger was measurably soothed, and he felt a grain of 
 commiseration for him. 
 
 "Strongheart," said he, "you are one of the finest 
 men I know, but you are not one of us." 
 
 "Neither are Europeans," said Strongheart, "yet 
 you would give your sister to one of them." 
 
 "It is not the same thing," was Nelson's reply. 
 
 "No," Strongheart quickly admitted, "it is not. I 
 have a greater claim than the European. I am the 
 American. I speak your tongue, I obey your laws. I 
 have lived with you, slept with you, eaten from the 
 same dish and yet you say I am not one of you." 
 
 Livingston believed he knew now why Dorothy had 
 not yielded to his suit : Strongheart had stood in his 
 way. Strongheart, his friend ! Strongheart, the In- 
 dian! The knowledge maddened him. His convic- 
 tions with regard to the mixture of races were as sin- 
 cere as his affections. They were still more similar, 
 for they were spontaneous ; he never gave thought to 
 either. And, as he was impulsive, disappointed love 
 and outraged convictions led him to an outburst that 
 transcended his reason. 
 
 "You don't need to be told that you are not one of 
 us in race," said he. "We trusted you with our 
 women, and when you spoke your love, you betrayed 
 your trust." 
 
 "Wait, Dick, not so fast," warned Nelson. 
 
 "Oh, let him speak !" exclaimed Strongheart. "It is 
 330
 
 STRONGH EART 
 
 time we understood one another. You called me 
 friend. There was no question of race. I have the 
 same education as you, the same customs, the same 
 feelings. You yourself, Dick, assured me that I be- 
 longed in civilization." 
 
 "Still you are an Indian," said Livingston. 
 
 Whichever way he turned, Strongheart found him- 
 self beating his hands against the same wall. 
 
 "You do well to remind me that I am an Indian," 
 said he, with rising anger. "You have taken from me 
 the land of my fathers, and yet when I live by your 
 laws, and would lead my people in your ways, you- will 
 not call me brother. I am Soangetaha, son of a chief. 
 In what way am I not your equal?" 
 
 "I tell you to keep away from my sister," said 
 Nelson. 
 
 "I will not!" Strongheart retorted. "I will try to 
 win her in spite of you, consent, or no consent !" 
 
 "Now you show the treachery of your race!" cried 
 Livingston. "You make love to our women It 
 was you who betrayed the team !" 
 
 Nelson, perceiving that his chum's excitement had 
 passed restraint, and being as unequal to this peculiar 
 emergency as he had been in the case of the team's 
 unreasonable hostility to Strongheart, turned his back 
 and, with clenched fists, walked to a window and 
 looked out as if there he might find the light he 
 needed. 
 
 "Dick! do you dare to say that?" Strongheart de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Yes, I dare ! If you can be unfaithful in one case, 
 331
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 you can in another. That was your father's reasoning, 
 if you remember. You don't dare to show me those 
 signals." 
 
 Up to this moment Strongheart's brow had not 
 wholly cleared of the puzzled frown that marked the 
 difficulty of comprehending his friends' attitude. Now 
 it vanished, and his eyes blazed. 
 
 "You force me to fight. Good!" said he, "There 
 are the signals we got from Farley." 
 
 Nelson turned at this and came back quickly to his 
 chum's side. Livingston took the paper Strongheart 
 held toward him, and both looked at it. 
 
 "My God! Frank, the writing's mine!" cried Liv- 
 ingston. 
 
 "It is not my honor," said Strongheart, "but yours 
 that is in danger. Now vindicate it yourself." 
 
 "Now you're showing what you are," said Nelson, 
 bitterly. "I was a fool to bring you into my house." 
 
 "You have reminded me tonight that I am an In- 
 dian," Strongheart retorted. "Good! An Indian 
 knows how to revenge himself." 
 
 "Yes," said Livingston, "on those who took him 
 into their homes." 
 
 "I was an Indian when you took me! I will not 
 sacrifice my life to your prejudice; I will take my 
 answer from her." 
 
 "Strongheart," said Nelson, "this is my house. I 
 forbid you seeing my sister." 
 
 "You have not that right," Strongheart retorted. 
 "It is for her to decide. If she will accept my love it 
 is not for you to forbid it."
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Have you no sense of honor?" Livingston de- 
 manded. 
 
 Strongheart flung back the imputation, "It is you 
 who are false to me, as your race has been false to 
 mine. You have robbed us of all we had, but you 
 shall not take from me the right to love!" 
 
 "Understand me, Strongheart," said Nelson, "yon 
 shall not speak of love to her." 
 
 "Do you think you can stop me ? No ! I will speak 
 now !" 
 
 The Indian began to stride across the room, and 
 Nelson hastened to interpose between him and the 
 door, saying, "If you dare say another word to my 
 sister" when the door opened and in came Dorothy. 
 Instantly both men halted, but Dorothy must have 
 been blind if she had not perceived the signs of 
 trouble. 
 
 "Why, boys," she asked, "what is the matter?" 
 
 "Miss Nelson," said Strongheart, quickly, "when I 
 told you of my love, you asked me to wait, but you did 
 not deny me." 
 
 "Strongheart, leave my house!" cried Nelson. 
 
 "Oh, shame, Frank!" said Dorothy, in a whisper, 
 while her startled eyes leaped from one face to another. 
 
 "Dorothy, you don't understand," faltered Living- 
 ston. 
 
 "She understands your injustice," said Strongheart. 
 "She knows it was you who brought me from the 
 forest to be one of you. You introduced me to the 
 broader life, and now you bid me step back. You 
 tell me that I may not share it, but must stand outside, 
 
 333
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 because I am an Indian. No ! I will not do it ! But," 
 and Strongheart addressed Dorothy, directly, subduing 
 his manner, "Miss Nelson, I owe you the profoundest 
 apology. I regret that I should have been the cause 
 of making you a party to a painful scene to a quar- 
 rel, Miss Nelson. I was beside myself, and was about 
 to demand the answer you bade me wait for. I beg 
 your forgiveness. I will come tomorrow." 
 
 He withdrew at once. Dorothy started impulsively 
 after him. Livingston pressed his clenched fists 
 against his lips, and Nelson caught his sister by the 
 arm. 
 
 / 
 
 One word fluttered from her trembling lips. 
 
 "Strongheart !" 
 
 The Indian nad closed the door and did not hear it. 
 
 334
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 EVERYWHERE THE SAME WALL 
 
 At five o'clock the next afternoon the members of 
 the football team were assembled at Nelson's house. 
 Strongheart was the last to arrive, and nobody greeted 
 him as he entered the meeting room, which was the 
 same, the library, where he had faced the crisis on 
 the preceding evening. One there was who would 
 have spoken cheerily to him if he had seen the Indian ; 
 but big Billy Saunders was engaged in an animated 
 "aside" with Livingston, for Molly had at last uttered 
 an unequivocal "yes," and Billy was doing his delirious 
 utmost to extract congratulations from her brother, 
 and wondering a little disconcertedly why they were 
 forthcoming with so little enthusiasm. Poor Dick! 
 It was not that he had the slightest objection to Billy, 
 but that his own heart was too heavy to respond readily 
 to another's transports. 
 
 Strongheart took a place somewhat apart, as he felt, 
 from the rest, and while the men were exchanging 
 reminiscences of the game, Thorne sidled down to him 
 and said, "You won't give me away? You see I was 
 right, wasn't I ?" 
 
 "Yes, you were right," said Strongheart, and turned 
 aside. His features were set in that sullen expression, 
 
 335
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 token of deep resentment, that Livingston had often 
 noticed during the first days in the wilderness. 
 Thome suppressed a sigh of relief, and returned to 
 the main group. 
 
 "Will the team please come to order," said Nelson, 
 rapping his knuckles lightly on the table. "Boys, this 
 is a very nasty business, and the sooner it's over, the 
 better. You all know what happened yesterday. What 
 we want to find out today is the name of the man who 
 sent those signals to Farley." 
 
 "Then," said Thorne, reassuming the real leadership 
 of the team, "we must know first in whose handwrit- 
 ing the list was." 
 
 "The Indian's," said a voice. 
 
 "No boys," said Livingston, promptly. "Frank has 
 the list, and the writing's mine." 
 
 There was a general start, and several exclamations 
 of surprise. 
 
 "I've tried to think it out, boys," Livingston con- 
 tinued, "but I am as much in the dark as you are. 
 The list is mine, and I can't explain how it came into 
 Farley's hands." 
 
 Thorne stood up, that his words might be the more 
 impressive for formal utterance. "In a matter tike 
 this," said he, with becoming gravity and a tone col- 
 ored by regret, "personal friendship must be sacrificed 
 to justice. If Dick has no explanation to offer, there 
 u only one thing for us to do." 
 
 "I have no explanation," Livingson repeated. 
 
 The men who, at the behest of a self-appointed 
 leader, had condemned Strongheart on mere ap- 
 
 336
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 pearances, and who trusted Dick Livingston as they 
 trusted themselves, looked in breathless anxiety 
 toward Thorne. He began, addressing Livingston, 
 "Then you'll have to " when Strongheart called 
 his name. The Indian's tone vibrated with dismal 
 presage to the plotter, who immediately lost his 
 confident poise and hurried to where Strongheart 
 stood. 
 
 "For God's sake, Strongheart," he whispered, "re- 
 member that you have him in your power! Have 
 you forgotten what he said yesterday?" 
 
 "No," Strongheart answered, "but I had almost 
 forgotten how the son of a chief should act." 
 
 Thorne shrank from him as Strongheart advanced 
 to the head of the table where Nelson sat. He laid 
 before the captain the telegram that Thorne had 
 written at Billy's dictation. "There," said Strong- 
 heart, "is the proof of Dick's innocence." 
 
 Some of the men crowded around the table to 
 look at the paper, and Nelson asked, "What does 
 this mean?" 
 
 "It means," Strongheart replied, "that Thorne 
 wrote a list of signals which he found a way to sub- 
 stitute for the list Dick wrote for Billy ;, having ac- 
 complished the exchange, Thorne sent Dick's list 
 to Farley. Billy got the list Thorne wrote. This 
 telegram was written by Thorne last evening. A 
 comparison of the writings will prove that Thorne 
 wrote both " 
 
 "And tried to throw the blame on Dick !" shouted 
 Billy. 
 
 337
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 There was an ominous rustling as all the men 
 turned their eyes upon the plotter. 
 
 "You can get further details from the redskin," 
 said Thome, starting to leave the room. 
 
 The men, as by one impulse, massed in front of 
 the door. More than one fist was raised in the hope 
 of getting in a blow. 
 
 "Wait, boys," called Strongheart. "Remember, he 
 can never show his face in college again. No man 
 will take his hand. Let him go." 
 
 It needed but a commander to sway the small 
 crowd. With some reluctance, but without hesita- 
 tion, the men stood away from the door, and Thome 
 passed out in silence. The moment he was gone 
 there was a rush to congratulate Livingston. Billy 
 Saunders hastened to Strongheart. 
 
 "Old man, you're a brick!" said he, and then 
 shouted to the team generally, "Boys, we owe an 
 apology to the man who saved the game by keeping 
 Dick in it." 
 
 Shamefacedly, but honestly, the men surrounded 
 Strongheart, each apologizing in his own way, and 
 all shook him by the hand, all except Nelson and 
 Livingston. In the confusion the others did not 
 notice the omission, and presently Nelson diverted 
 their interest and attention to another subject by 
 asking them to have a bite to eat before they went, 
 and directing them to an adjoining room where a 
 table was laid with refreshments. The men flocked 
 willingly thither, and Nelson followed them. Liv- 
 ingston was left alone with Strongheart. 
 
 338
 
 STRON GH EART 
 
 "Strongheart," said Livingston, his voice shaking 
 Ixidly, "I thank you for what you've just done. I was 
 a cad last night. I ask your pardon for what I 
 said." 
 
 "Do you take back all you said, Dick?" asked 
 Strongheart. 
 
 "No, I cannot. It's not jealousy. Something 
 stronger than you or I has come between us. You're 
 the finest man I ever met, but we cannot be friends. 
 Will you take my hand?" 
 
 Strongheart put out his hand very slowly and 
 grasped Dick's. "Something stronger than friend- 
 ship," he said thoughtfully. "Yes. Good-bye, 
 Dick." 
 
 They looked into each other's eyes for an instant, 
 and then Livingston left the room. Strongheart 
 watched him go in anguish of soul. 
 
 "And I thought I was one of them!" was his 
 silent cry. 
 
 He turned at the sound of an opening door and 
 saw the butler, who looked in to say, "There is 
 someone here asking for you, sir. He says he's a 
 messenger from your people." 
 
 "A messenger! Is he an Indian?" 
 
 "I think so, sir." 
 
 . Filled with misgivings, Strongheart hesitated. 
 Another door opened and he saw Dorothy. "Let 
 the man come in here," he said, and advanced to 
 meet her, saying, "I am here for my answer, Miss 
 Nelson." 
 
 She looked him in the eyes, in her familiar, fear- 
 339
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 less way, and replied, "Strongheart, I will go with 
 you." 
 
 His heart swelled with triumph, and yet he stood 
 still. Was it that the Indian had been re-awakened 
 by the episodes of the past twenty-four hours to the 
 traditional caution of his race? or was it that the 
 elemental nobility of the man came to the fore? He 
 said, "There must be no mistake. I would have 
 you look well into your heart and be sure." 
 
 "I have looked well, and I am sure," said Dor- 
 othy. 
 
 "Is it love, or pity?" 
 
 "Strongheart! it is love!" 
 
 She inclined a little toward him, her eyes aglow 
 with the light of conscious love, her rnien expres- 
 sive of unassailable faith. 
 
 "Then," he cried, his voice quivering with the first 
 release to long subdued yearning, "I can forget 
 everything else!" 
 
 Again the sound of an opening door. They turned 
 to see the butler ushering in an aged Indian who 
 stood hesitating at the threshold, blinking as if he 
 had come from darkness into sudden noon. Dor- 
 othy ran to him with outstretched hand. 
 
 "Bozho, Black Eagle!" she cried. 
 
 Strongheart advanced more slowly, the misgiv- 
 ings of the earlier moment rising to cloud his joy. 
 Black Eagle shook hands with each of them, and 
 said, "Bosho, ogema; bosho equay; nibo Kiwetin 
 Ogema." ("Greeting, Chief; greeting, lady; Chief 
 Kiwetin is dead.") 
 
 340
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Dorothy felt rather than saw Strongheart start, 
 and she turned to him inquiringly. 
 
 "He calls me Chief," said Strongheart, "and tells 
 jne my father is dead." 
 
 For the moment, filial grief dominated his emo- 
 tions and left him insensible to the full significance 
 of Black Eagle's greeting "Chief." Greater, more 
 impressive was that irrevocable call that had sum- 
 moned his father from him, forever. 
 
 "Oh, Strongheart!" said Dorothy, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. She would have said and done more to ex- 
 press her sympathy, but Black Eagle spoke again. 
 
 "Tell the lady to go away," he said. "I wish to 
 gpeak to you alone." 
 
 "It is better that she should stay," Strongheart 
 told him. "I wish it so." 
 
 "But we have no women in our councils." 
 
 "I wish it so, Black Eagle. You will soon under- 
 stand why. She does not know a word you say. 
 You can speak as if she were not here." 
 
 "Then," said Black Eagle, reluctantly, "I have to 
 say that the people sent me to you to tell the mes- 
 sage I have given. They could have got somebody 
 to write it, and it could have been sent by mail, but 
 they sent me; for they feared that you might have 
 become fond of some white woman, and that you 
 would bring her with you without thinking that our 
 people do not want her." 
 
 "Black Eagle," Strongheart interrupted, "this 
 woman who stands before you loves me, and I love 
 her. I shall take her with me." 
 
 341
 
 STRO N GHEART 
 
 "Is there no woman of our people " 
 
 "I love her, Black Eagle !" 
 
 "Our chief should marry among his own people. 
 I think so. I have talked it over with the other old 
 men, and they agree with me." 
 
 "But you cannot tell the chief whom he may 
 marry." 
 
 "We are old men, and we can advise him. We 
 can tell him what the people want. You have been 
 away from us a great deal and may not know what 
 we want. I am here to tell you. This woman is not 
 one of us. She is a white woman, and should stay 
 among the whites." 
 
 "But she will help us," urged Strongheart. 
 
 Black Eagle shook his head. "No," he said, "it 
 is not good. She is white, and your people will not 
 take her." 
 
 "Then they are not my people," exclaimed 
 Strongheart. "If they will not honor the woman I 
 love, I will leave them. Go back, Black Eagle, and 
 tell them to choose another chief." 
 
 The aged Indian raised one open hand above his 
 head in token of the solemnity of his utterance : 
 "Soangetaha, you may leave them, but they will 
 always be your people. They sent you to the white 
 man to learn his wisdom." 
 
 "And I have only learned to love!" Strongheart 
 groaned, with a shudder. "I cannot give up that 
 love !" 
 
 "The Winter is coming," said Black Eagle. "Your 
 people are poor. They need you." 
 
 342
 
 S T R O N G H E A R T 
 
 "Then let them take her who will help them." 
 
 "No! She is white. Her people have made us 
 suffer." 
 
 "Aye ! and the white men have been false to me, 
 but I thought my own people would be true !" 
 
 "We are true to you when we say no to your love, 
 Soangetaha. The children of our chief must not be 
 halfbreeds. Come with me, and come alone. We 
 need you. We are poor, but we paid for your wis- 
 dom. Jt belongs to us ! Come !" 
 
 "I cannot give up my love!" cried Strongheart. 
 He dared not look toward Dorothy. 
 
 "Soangetaha," said Black Eagle, as with the voice 
 of a prophet, "your people sacrificed that you might 
 attain wisdom. Was it for your pleasure? Was it 
 that you might do with it according to the whim of 
 your fancy? No, Soangetaha! They have lifted 
 you up that you might see what they cannot see, 
 and be a guide for them. They have made you 
 what you are. They believed you to be a man of 
 honor, such as the son of a long line of chiefs should 
 be. You are an Ojibway! Are you now going to 
 cast off your people in their hour of need? It is our 
 right that our chief, for whom we have sacrificed, 
 should be devoted to us, his people, and not to a 
 white woman. Choose, Soangetaha ! It is your 
 people and honor, or dishonor and the woman !" 
 
 "Enough ! Enough !" groaned Strongheart. "I 
 will go with you. Wait for me here," and, striding 
 to a door, he threw it open. Black Eagle, with no 
 word or look of satisfaction, gravely crossed the 
 
 343
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 threshold, and Strongheart closed the door. He 
 stood for a moment with his hand gripping the 
 knob, and at last turned to Dorothy, his features 
 contorted in a vain effort to subdue the agony that 
 sought expression there. 
 
 "Strongheart," she said, "the talk has been all 
 about me." 
 
 "You have not understood?" he queried, startled. 
 
 "Not a word, but it was not necessary. I felt it 
 hostility, prejudice was it not, Strongheart? It 
 seemed to me the old man was proclaiming my 
 death warrant. Was it not so?" 
 
 "Miss Nelson," said Strongheart, in such agitation 
 as he had never before known, "I have been dream- 
 ing, a beautiful dream, all sunshine and flowers; and 
 now the Winter has come, and there will be no 
 Spring ! Ah, God forgive me for having loved you ! 
 for it must have been the strength of my love that 
 made you love me " 
 
 Thus far spoke Strongheart, farther than was 
 necessary to proclaim the truth to Dorothy, whose 
 intuitions had been confirmed by his attitude more 
 than by his words; but the speech was necessary 
 for another purpose; for Dorothy, even Dorothy, 
 had need of time for her own struggle. She had but 
 now made confession that love was become the 
 master of her life, and confession had strengthened 
 love's demands. It was a brief rebellion, it passed 
 in a flash, but in that instant the woman suffered 
 the bewildering sorrow of finding herself abandoned, 
 in that instant she was tempted to put forth her own 
 
 344
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 powers to reverse the decree, to swerve Strongheart 
 from his life work and make him her own, and in 
 the same instant she found strength to choose the 
 nobler course and nerve herself for sacrifice. So it 
 was that she interrupted, "No! No! it was yourself, 
 and not your love that won me ! You have no need 
 to ask forgiveness. That strength, that nobility 
 that I have come to worship will sustain you in the 
 trial that is now thrust upon you. Tell me just what 
 it is that Black Eagle says. I will be brave, Strong- 
 heart, brave as you are." 
 
 "He has persuaded my people that their chiel 
 must not take a white woman for his wife. I am an 
 Ojibway, Miss Nelson, and I know what that 
 means. I know my people. The prejudice of the 
 whites is as clay to adamant compared to the In- 
 dian's when it is once aroused. It is not merely 
 immovable, it is unimpressionable. Black Eagle re- 
 minded me that my people sacrificed to send me 
 here to learn wisdom, as he calls it, for their benefit ; 
 and he makes it a point of honor that I should choose 
 between love and my people." 
 
 "He did not need to raise that point, Strong- 
 heart," she said sadly but with quiet firmness. 
 "There is no choice." 
 
 "I tried to persuade him that you would be a help 
 to the people. I told him I loved you. I tried to 
 assert the authority of a chief " 
 
 "And in the name of your people, he rejected 
 me." 
 
 Strongheart bowed his head. 
 345
 
 STRONGHEAR1 
 
 Unseen by him, Dorothy swept the tears from her 
 eyes. "What unsuspected cruelty lurks in every 
 people !" she said softly, and nature threatened once 
 again to overwhelm her adherence to the higher 
 right. 
 
 "The law of races is founded on cruelty," said he. 
 
 "We must not dwell on it, Strongheart," she re- 
 sponded, again triumphant over herself. "You must 
 not think of me. I, too, had dreamed, and my 
 dream was beautiful. I thought J saw myself work- 
 ing with you for the uplifting of your people. That 
 cannot be, but your people must be uplifted. It is 
 your work, and you must do it alone." 
 
 He looked up suddenly, the expression of an 
 animal at bay in his eyes. "Alone !" he whispered, 
 shuddering. 
 
 "Alone, Strongheart! And you will! It is the 
 sacrifice of the individual for the mass. You will 
 make it bravely, steadfastly. You will let no re- 
 grets, no dreaming of the old dreams stand between 
 you and your duty to your people. I know this, 
 Strongheart, my friend, for it is in your character to 
 overcome all things. You will overcome sorrow, 
 you will overcome yourself, you will in future as 
 you have in the past, justify your name " 
 
 "No more !" he cried, almost roughly. "I can 
 endure no more. Let me go while I have the 
 strength to go. If I am to justify your faith in me, 
 I must not linger near you. Good-bye, Miss Nelson.' 
 
 He turned away from her, his hands at his sides, 
 clenched. She stifled a sob, and her eyes were dim 
 
 346
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 with tears, but there shone from them through the 
 mist the light of triumph. She had at least inspired 
 him with the necessary courage for the parting. 
 
 "Good-bye, Strongheart," she said, and hastened 
 swiftly from the room. 
 
 Not until the door had closed upon her did he 
 stir. Then he whirled about quickly and looked 
 wildly at the spot where she had been, at the door 
 that had closed upon her. One step he took in that 
 direction, and halted. Slowly he raised his hands 
 in the air and threw back his head, standing for a 
 moment as he had stood in the Columbia Quadrangle 
 at midnight. 
 
 "Great Spirit of my fathers," said he, "help ! help ! 
 For I am in the midst of a desert, alone !" 
 
 347
 
 SEQUEL 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE CHIEF 
 
 Spring was far advanced, but there was a chill in 
 the evening air, and the woman had set a fire going 
 in the closed stove that partly furnished the main 
 room. The man sat before it, his elbows on his 
 knees, his head in his hands. Near him was a table 
 spread with a white cloth and covered with plain 
 dishes; a few wooden chairs were there; a moose 
 skin and three rag mats on the floor ; bare walls, save 
 for a hunting rifle and game bag hanging opposite 
 the outside door. 
 
 For some minutes the woman came and went be- 
 tween the main room and the kitchen, reached by a 
 door at the right as one entered from the road. Be- 
 neath the rifle was suspended a large square of cloth 
 that, in certain parts of the world, would have been 
 called a portiere, for it concealed the entrance to a 
 meagerly furnished bedroom, a small chamber with 
 a slanting roof, as if a shed had been tacked to the 
 main building as an afterthought. The kitchen was 
 of much the same sort, a mere sheltered floor, on 
 which were stove and the usual outfit for washing 
 
 348
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 and cooking. So, there was an exit from the main 
 room on each of three sides; one to the road, the 
 others to smaller structures that manifestly were 
 not included in the original design of the building, 
 which, indeed, had consisted only of what was now 
 the main room with its four walls. But there was 
 still another exit, or, at all events a door, on the 
 fourth side of the room. Viewed from the outside, 
 it led to a chamber, or some manner of apartment 
 that was more evidently an afterthought than the 
 kitchen and bedroom, for it was comparatively well 
 built, as large almost as the main room itself, and 
 provided with wide windows through which nobody 
 could look, for the green shades were always 
 drawn. And the door by which this addition to the 
 house was approached could hardly be called an 
 exit, for it was always locked. The woman never 
 had crossed its threshold. Only the man ever went 
 in there ; no friend ever was admitted with him, and 
 when he had gone in, he closed and locked the door. 
 
 "Supper is ready," said the woman. 
 
 The man did not stir. 
 
 "Soangetaha," said she, after a moment, putting 
 her hand on his shoulder, and making a show of 
 shaking him, "come ! wake up ! Supper is ready." 
 
 He raised his head at that and looked wearily at 
 her, then at the table. 
 
 "I was not asleep," said he. "I do not care to eat 
 tonight." 
 
 Her sombre features took on no shadow of 
 anxiety; her eyes lighted with no manifestations of 
 
 319
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 surprise; but she stood as if hesitating by the table 
 for a moment before sitting and beginning slowly 
 to help herself to food. Soangetaha kept his gaze 
 thoughtfully upon her, but she was merely a sight- 
 ing point for his vision, which flew on the trajectory 
 of memory to a target set far beyond. His shoulders 
 drooped as he rested his hands on his knees, and 
 weariness lingered on his face. 
 
 "You ought to eat," said she, in a tone of dull 
 discontent. "You who know so much shouldn't be 
 told that you can't live without eating." 
 
 A ghost of a smile, a fleeting expression of hard- 
 tried patience, announced the return of his vision 
 to the present. "I do not always fast," said he, 
 gently. "I ate a hearty breakfast only this morning. 
 An Indian does not need to pamper himself with 
 three meals a day. Our fathers ate only when they 
 were hungry, and often they could not, even then, 
 because there was no food." 
 
 "Yes," said she, "but the trouble with you is that 
 the Indian's food no longer satisfies you. If you 
 could sit down to a white man's table now you'd eat 
 readily enough." 
 
 "No, no, you are quite mistaken, Gezhikway. 
 Food is food, and there is none better than the 
 Indian's. I think you're jealous. You want me to 
 tell you every day what a fine housekeeper and cook 
 you are." 
 
 "I want you to eat," said she, "so that you can 
 be well, and strong, and be what the people want 
 you to be." 
 
 350
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Yes," said he, as if struck with a new thought, 
 or with an old one in a new guise. And, after a 
 pause, "Yes," again. Then he drew his chair to the 
 table and fell to eating with more energy than eag- 
 erness. His sister went mechanically on with her 
 meal, betraying no sign of satisfaction that she had 
 won her point. 
 
 "Of course it's hard for you to understand me," 
 he said presently, with an assumption of cheerful- 
 ness that faded quickly as his discourse proceeded. 
 "It is really not true that I am unhappy because 
 I miss the white man's way of living. I am no 
 child, Gezhikway, to cry because I cannot have cake 
 for supper. No ! I am a man, and an Ojibway, and 
 I complain of nothing that cannot be helped. It is 
 the things that can be helped, or ought to be helped 
 that disturb me; the things right here, Gezhikway, 
 not in our house, for I could not ask for a better 
 kept home, or better food, or more care than you 
 give to the necessary work here. I mean the ways 
 of the people generally. I see what they need, I 
 know what they ought to do, and I cannot make 
 them look to the future. They listen attentively, 
 and wag their heads, and debate and debate among 
 themselves, and do nothing. J, cannot stir them. 
 They seem to expect that, because I have been edu- 
 cated, I can revolutionize their circumstances in a 
 day, bring something ready-made to them, when 
 what they must learn is that any change in their 
 circumstances worth making must be wrought out 
 by themselves; that there can be no racial im- 
 
 351
 
 STRONCHBART 
 
 provement effected by the services alone of others 
 than themselves; that it is a work mainly of 
 the present generation for the benefit of those who 
 are to come. 
 
 "It is because I fail in my mission, Gezhikway, 
 that I am unhappy and often shrink from the 
 thought of wholesome food. I have not failed for 
 any lack of effort. You know that. I have worked 
 hard, early and late, done, or tried to do, everything 
 that needed doing. Two years and a half, now, my 
 whole life, every ounce of strength I have, has been 
 given to my people, and I cannot see progress. I 
 have hesitated at nothing. Teaching children is 
 irksome to me, yet I built a school-house, and 
 brought books to it, and maps, and summoned the 
 people to send their children to me. You know 
 what happened." 
 
 "The people do not think it right that the chief 
 should give most of his time to the children," said 
 Gezhikway, unemotionally. "They demand his at- 
 tention to the larger affairs that concern the grown- 
 up ones." 
 
 "Exactly!" he cried, exasperation sharpening his 
 tone. "They will not look to the future. They 
 elect me chief, and then refuse to let me guide them 
 because I try to guide them in a way they are not 
 used to. They nod their heads and say, gayget, yes 
 indeed, to the school, and the first day the whole 
 population comes, doddering old men, women with 
 nursing babes, heads of families who should not 
 have left the fields, grinning young bucks who would 
 
 352
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 not learn their letters even if they were paid for it; 
 and they crowd the little room, watch my efforts 
 with curiosity, not to say amusement, and finally 
 leave some of the teachable children with me for 
 that day. But the next, half the children are present, 
 and after that a few come or not, as they please. 
 I know I am not fitted to teach, but the people 
 should have let me try. 
 
 "Then the government assigns a teacher. I do 
 everything I can to drive the children to him, but, 
 on one excuse and another, most of them are kept 
 away. The teacher has no authority to compel at- 
 tendance, my people evade my authority, and the 
 teacher, try as he will, only provokes everybody, 
 for he doesn't understand Indian nature, and will 
 not learn when I tell him his errors and point out his 
 tactlessness. The little pay he gets keeps him alive, 
 and so he clings to the place and I cannot arouse the 
 government to make a change. Why should there 
 be a change? asks government. You have the 
 school, we send the teacher. It's up to you. That 
 was what the agent said the last time I spoke to him 
 on the matter, and he couldn't see that no good could 
 come of the school unless we had a teacher who 
 could win the old people by sympathy and under- 
 standing. 
 
 "And, as with 'the school, so with everything else. 
 Today I have been again trying to show some of 
 die men that it would be better to put larger areas 
 into vegetables that could be sold to the whites. 
 I tell them about better ways of cultivating, 
 
 353
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 about the market for their produce that can be hai 
 for a year or two of patient building. But no, 
 what has been is right. Harvest enough for our 
 needs next Winter. What more do we want? Jn 
 the terms of Indian logic, how can we need any more 
 than we need? Impossible! Therefore, plant no 
 more than we are sure we can eat. Bah !" 
 
 He arose, lit his pipe, and strode back and forth 
 while Gezhikway began to gather up the dishes. 
 She understood not a whit of his speech beyond the 
 external facts narrated, and he knew that she did 
 not understand, but what was he to do? There was 
 no one to whom he could have poured forth the 
 surplus of his discouragement who would have un- 
 derstood any better. 
 
 "The people know you are unhappy, Soangetaha," 
 said she, "and they are sorry." 
 
 "Yes," said he, and his tone softened, although 
 there was a tang of bitterness in it, "I believe that. 
 They would prefer me to be happy, contented, in- 
 different to the future as they are. They cannot 
 understand what makes me unhappy." 
 
 "They think you would be happy if you would be 
 one of them," said she, leaning her hands on the 
 table, and for once taking on an expression of ear- 
 nestness. "They would have you marry 
 
 "Ugh !" he interrupted, "the old story." 
 
 "For they say," she continued, unheeding the in- 
 terruption, "that if Soangetaha had faith in these 
 things he would have done for the future, he would 
 provide a future for himself. Soangetaha has no 
 
 354
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 wife, no children. If he believed in the future he 
 talks about so much, he would have a family. They 
 say it is because secretly you believe there is no 
 hope for the Indian that you do not marry." 
 
 He stopped abruptly in his walk and looked hard 
 at her. Gezhikway had never spoken to him in just 
 this way. 
 
 "So their logic has driven them to that view!" 
 he exclaimed softly. "I must demonstrate faith in 
 my teaching by having a family. Thus would I tie 
 myself forever to them, to the people. They fear 
 I will desert them ! Once I am committed to them 
 by obligations to a family, they will follow me ; that 
 is, they will imitate my ways. I wonder if they 
 are not right?" 
 
 Gezhikway had begun to clear away the dishes. 
 Apparently she had not listened to him. 
 
 "Where did you hear this?" he asked. 
 
 "It is spoken everywhere," she replied. "You 
 know they have wanted you to marry." 
 
 "Yes, but I never before heard it put in just this 
 way." 
 
 "They have been waiting, and watching, and 
 thinking, all these two years and more. They did 
 not put it this way at first because they could not 
 think it then, for they believed you would some day 
 marry. When you built the extra room to your 
 house, they thought it was for your squaw. They 
 waited. You have not brought her " 
 
 "No! and I'm not likely to," he interrupted in 
 sudden repugnance to the logic of his tribe. They 
 
 355
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 might be trebly right; then let them elect another 
 chief and at this alternative his heart sank, for 
 such outcome meant not merely the failure of his mis- 
 sion in life, but the deliberate desertion of his cause. 
 
 "I know what is the matter, Soangetaha," said 
 Gezhikway, pausing again in her work. "You are 
 thinking of the white woman who visited us three 
 years ago this Summer." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I am. I shall always think of her. 
 Black Eagle and the other old men know that, for 
 I have told them so." 
 
 "That was one reason why they did not tell you 
 at first that you must have a family if you would 
 persuade them to follow your ways. They were 
 sorry for you. They thought you would see wis- 
 dom after a time, and be able to make the sacrifice 
 for the people." 
 
 "God in Heaven!" cried Strongheart, bursting 
 into English. "Is it not enough that I have turned 
 my back on civilization, cut the refinements out of 
 my life, left my love behind me and never sought 
 to keep in the slightest touch with her lest I waver 
 in devotion to my people? Having wounded my 
 soul to death, must I now trample on it, insult it 
 by the desecration of the holiest sentiment a man 
 can cherish? Love her and deliberately marry an- 
 other? No, so help me God! My people have no 
 right to that sacrifice !" 
 
 "I want to tell you something, Soangetaha," said 
 Gezhikway, after he had finishd the speech which, 
 save for disconnected words, was gibberish to her. 
 
 356
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "You think I don't understand you, and that the 
 people don't understand. Perhaps that is so, for 
 we are not educated. But we are sorry, and perhaps 
 you do not understand that. Qj want to tell you 
 something." 
 
 "Well, tell it, Gezhikway." 
 
 "Will you promise not to be angry, and not to 
 punish anybody for it?" 
 
 He looked at her doubtfully. "Yes," he said after 
 reflection, "I promise. What is it?" 
 
 "One of the men is so grieved at your unhappi- 
 ness, and so sure that you ought to have a family, 
 that he has been singing the wabeno prayers, and 
 making medicine, that a bride may be found who 
 will be pleasing to you." 
 
 Strongheart frowned. "That was Tom Baume- 
 gezhik," said he, sternly. "I have told him that he 
 must give up the wabeno mysteries. They are 
 wrong " 
 
 "You promised not to be angry," interrupted Gez- 
 hikway, frightened. "You said you would not pun- 
 ish." ' 
 
 "You ought not to have me make such a promise." 
 
 "1 would not have told you without it." 
 
 "You should tell me, Gezhikway. It is part of my 
 business as Chief to stamp out the bad old supersti- 
 tions." 
 
 "You promised, Soangetaha." 
 
 "Well, I will say nothing. Is there anything else?" 
 
 "No. I wanted you to see how badly the people 
 feel for you." 
 
 357
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "So badly that they resort to the ancient ways of 
 witchcraft to cure me! They must be desperate, 
 indeed." 
 
 There was irony in his tone that was lost on her, 
 and that presently he regretted; for, in the silent 
 room of his reflections, where no controversy en- 
 tered to disturb, he perceived the ingenuous sin- 
 cerity of his erring tribesman's act, and his heart 
 ached in sympathy, as for a helpless child. And 
 again, as many times before, he told himself of the 
 infinite patience necessary to his task. Tom Bau- 
 megezhik was ostensibly a Christian. His voice was 
 loud in the service at church every Sunday, and 
 yet, when it came to matters deeply vital to him, 
 it was the ancient way he sought to gain relief. Not 
 in one generation, thought the Chief, sadly, can the 
 people be raised from ignorance and superstition. 
 There must be tolerance for the shortcomings of this 
 generation but, for his mind leaped quickly to the 
 remedy, how could the next generation be improved 
 if the present could not be induced to take the nec- 
 essary steps, and lay the foundation for the clearer 
 view? 
 
 Too worn to give his emotions outlet in a stren- 
 uous run over the trails, he sat smoking for hours 
 after Gezhikway had gone to bed in the curtained 
 chamber. His heart was indeed doubly sore, for not 
 only was love denied it, but ambition foresaw persis- 
 tent failure. It was not that education had put him 
 utterly out of sympathy with his people, but that 
 there was native to him certain haughtiness that 
 
 358
 
 STRONGH EART 
 
 no conscious effort could overcome. People of an- 
 other race would have called him aristocratic. The 
 distrust engendered by his unreadiness to fall into 
 the old ways after his first journey eastward for edu- 
 cation, had not been smoothed away, and it could 
 not be by his own unaided efforts. So it seemed to 
 him. Perhaps, when he was an old man, and the 
 present aged leaders of thought in the tribe had 
 passed away, those who were now babes might be 
 influenced by him. It was a long, dismal, disheart- 
 ening prospect, and the hours of silent communion 
 with the problem never made it any easier. 
 
 He laid aside his pipe at last, and went to the 
 locked door. We may enter with him for a brief, 
 respectful glance into the room unvisited save by 
 himself. 
 
 A cabinet filled with books stands in a corner ; 
 between two windows, a writing desk; a table with 
 books and lamp in the middle ; a swivel armchair ; 
 two other chairs such as might be found in any stu- 
 dent's room; a bed concealed partly by a curtain, 
 partly by a collapsible screen ; a rug not of Indian 
 make on the floor; hanging from hooks and tacked 
 to the walls, a multitude of articles, among them a 
 football, a jersey with a great C embroidered on it, 
 football pads, a pair of boxing gloves, a medal for 
 victory in a long-distance run, photographs of a 
 football team, individual photographs of student 
 friends, a whole frame of amateur snap-shots taken 
 by Nelson, in every one of which Dorothy figures; 
 the whole chamber, in short, a reproduction, as 
 
 o59
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 nearly as could be, of his modest quarters at Colum- 
 bia. On the table, the most conspicuous single ob- 
 ject is a standard holding a large photograph, an 
 enlarged copy of one of Nelson's most successful 
 pictures of his sister; it shows her as she stood one 
 morning by the lake-side just about to step into a 
 canoe, a paddle in her hand, the light of wholesome 
 enjoyment in her eyes. When Strongheart has 
 lighted the lamp, it is this to which he turns; he 
 takes it from the table and holds it before him 
 
 Our time is up. We must withdraw as silently as 
 may be through the locked door, for Strongheart is 
 praying.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 TRIBAL CONCESSIONS 
 
 One evening, just after Strongheart had finished 
 supper, and while the sun was still high, Black 
 Eagle and a dozen or more old men assembled at 
 the Chief's house. They came uninvited, but 
 Strongheart gravely bade them welcome, and, as 
 his chairs were insufficient to seat them all, none 
 were used, the Chief sitting on the floor, in the 
 ancient way, with the others. Gezhikway made 
 tea, which she gave to the visitors in tin cups, and 
 Strongheart's tobacco pouch was passed from one 
 to another. Every man lit his pipe, and presently 
 a thin cloud of fragrant smoke began to drift out of 
 the open door, token to anyone who might observe 
 that a council was in session. Such Strongheart 
 knew it to be the moment his visitors arrived, but 
 what was the occasion he knew not nor guessed 
 until they told him. Black Eagle, as was generally 
 the case, was the spokesman, but he said nothing of 
 a formal nature until the refreshments had been 
 served, and Gezhikway had gone to the kitchen. 
 
 "Soangetaha," said he, then, "you are our Chief. 
 Your father, Kiwetin, was chief before you, and 
 Kiwetin's father was chief before him. [It goes* 
 
 361
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 further back than that, long beyond the memory of 
 the oldest among us. For a long time, then, the 
 chieftainship of this tribe of Ojibways has been in 
 one family, its honor and its obligation. The white 
 man's government, to which we are now subject, 
 tells us that we must vote for our chiefs once in so 
 many years." 
 
 "Black Eagle, my friend," said Strongheart, "we 
 wish to understand each other. If, when my years 
 are up, the people wish another to be chief, I shall 
 not make any claims " 
 
 The aged spokesman raised his hand in dignified 
 but gentle rebuke of the interruption. 
 
 "That is not it, Soangetaha," said he. "We shall 
 understand each other. I was about to say that we 
 are glad to vote, because in that way we can say to 
 the government, and to you, and to everybody, that 
 we wish the chieftainship to stay where it has been 
 longer than the memory of man, for your fathers 
 served the people well, Soangetaha. So then, we 
 chose you, and we expect to choose you again, and 
 yet again, for you are young and strong, and all the 
 signs of your childhood were for a long life. We 
 wish to be guided by you as a tribe should be 
 guided by its chief, and we believe you have still 
 much to tell us for our good. You have told us 
 many times, Soangetaha, that we must learn to look 
 to the future. That was not so necessary in the 
 time of our fathers, but so many changes have come 
 with the coming of the whites, that looking to the 
 future appears to be the duty of the Indian. We 
 
 362
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 have thought much about this, and have discussed 
 it from all sides in our gatherings in our homes, or 
 in the fields, or wherever we might meet. We think 
 that you have given us good advice, and we have 
 said to one another, yes, we must look to the future. 
 And so we do. We look ahead and we ask, Where 
 is he who will be chief after Soangetaha has gone 
 to his fathers? We reflect that it takes many years 
 for a boy to grow to manhood, and we are disturbed 
 because the Chief's successor is not yet born." 
 
 The Chief's heart sank, though his face betrayed 
 no sign of dismay and fresh discouragement. So 
 this was the purpose of the council: to renew per- 
 suasion that he take a wife ! For more than two 
 years he had preached foresightedness ; and the 
 first convincing evidence that his teaching had taken 
 root was this application of the doctrine to himself ! 
 Time and again, in council and privately, the old 
 men had signified their desire that he take a wife, 
 but never before had this argument been used. It 
 had taken two years for them to get so far as this 
 toward his way of thinking. 
 
 It would have done unspeakable violence to In- 
 dian manners for Strongheart, having come to a 
 perception of the council's purpose, and having but 
 one unchangeable answer to the proposition, to end 
 the debate then and there. It must run its slow 
 course in regular order, even if the night were con- 
 sumed in useless talk, and the Chief silently resigned 
 himself to the infliction as a part of the burden of 
 office; but he found that Black Eagle's exhibition of 
 
 363
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Indian logic was really no more than a skilful intro- 
 duction to a view of the subject which was more 
 striking still. 
 
 "We have told you before," Black Eagle con- 
 tinued, "how we should be pleased if you would take 
 a wife from among your own people. It is the cus- 
 tom of the tribes, but there seems to be nothing 
 more to say about it, for the idea does not please 
 you, and we are sorry. Let it pass. We come to 
 tell you something different. You know that John 
 Longfeather has just returned from a journey far 
 westward?" 
 
 Strongheart knew that Longfeather had been 
 back more than a month, but he was not disposed to 
 quibble, so he nodded and said, "I know it, Black 
 Eagle," and the spokesman proceeded : 
 
 "Longfeather visited his cousins, who live on the 
 Moose River reservation. He had not seen them for 
 years, and he has had much to tell us how they are pros- 
 pering, and we have been interested, for many of us 
 are acquainted with his cousins. Among the things 
 Longfeather has told us is the story of the white 
 squaw who lives on the Moose River reservation. 
 She is a young woman, he says, and fair to look 
 upon; but, better than that, she is one whose heart 
 goes out to the Indians, and to whom the Indians 
 have given their trust and affection. There is no sus- 
 picion about her that she is seeking some selfish end 
 that she hides from the people. She has learned 
 their language it is not such pure Ojibway as we 
 speak, Soangetaha, but it is Ojibway, Longfeather 
 
 364
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 says, easy to understand and that sounds sweet 
 upon her tongue. She teaches all who wish to come 
 to her, whether they be children or aged men and 
 women. There is nothing she does not teach ; books, 
 yes, but new and better ways of sewing, and mak- 
 ing food, and taking care of the house. And if any 
 are sick on the reservation, it is she who goes to the 
 bedside and stays the night through, making medi- 
 cine that does good, and cures most of the time; and 
 when it does not cure, the people know that the 
 case was hopeless. Longfeather says it is as if the 
 woman were herself an Ojibway, but with all the 
 knowledge of the whites; such a woman, Soange- 
 taha, as you are a man. We have thought of all 
 this, and talked it over, and what we have come to 
 tell you is this: that if you are fully decided that 
 you do not want a wife from among your own peo- 
 ple, we should be glad if you would bring this wo- 
 man Longfeather tells us of to your house and make 
 her your squaw." 
 
 The Chief had foreseen the climax, but no muscle 
 of his face moved. He kept his eyes fixed gravely 
 on the speaker, but in his heart he knew not 
 whether to laugh or to weep. What was there to 
 say to such simplicity? How assume an attitude 
 that should be comprehensible and satisfactory? 
 
 "What you tell me, Black Eagle," said Strong- 
 heart, "is very interesting. I have believed that 
 such whites could be found to help the Indians, if 
 only we knew where to seek for them. You do not 
 forget that there was a white woman whom I 
 
 365
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 wished to bring here, and that you opposed me?" 
 "We do not forget it," Black Eagle replied. "We 
 have grieved for the sorrow of our Chief, but in 
 those days we believed you would forget the white 
 woman and become one of us in every way. We 
 did not want a stranger among us. Now it is a 
 little different. We would rather our Chief took an 
 Indian wife, but if he will not, we would welcome 
 the white squaw from the Moose River reservation. 
 Strongheart was too steeped in civilization to 
 undertake a futile argument. "Of what use," he 
 groaned inwardly, "to point out the ludicrous char- 
 acter of their concession ? What end will be served 
 by harping on their rejection of Dorothy?" And 
 his heart ached, for he believed that if he could have 
 brought Dorothy with him, she would have become 
 for his tribe just what the white squaw at Moose 
 River seemed to be for the tribe there. That is, and 
 he was still Indian enough to recognize this im- 
 portant point, if the people would have received her 
 willingly at first. He knew only too well that, had 
 he insisted on bringing Dorothy with him, the 
 people, prejudiced by Black Eagle and the old men 
 who habitually sided with him, would have made 
 life intolerable for her. There is no human effort 
 which the Indian cannot subvert if his mind be 
 turned against it, and Strongheart knew it. Dor- 
 othy, welcomed, would doubtless have been the 
 helper and teacher the tribe needed ; she would have 
 been the essential complement of Strongheart in 
 his relations to his people. He had long been con- 
 
 366
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 scious of the causes of his failure as well as of the 
 failure itself, and, from the narrative brought by 
 Longfeather, it appeared that the white squaw at 
 Moose River succeeded in just those points wherein 
 he was weakest. 
 
 "What is the white squaw's name?" Strongheart 
 asked. 
 
 "They call her Minodaeikway," said Black Eagle 
 (Lady of the Good Heart). 
 
 "Yes, but what is her white name?" 
 
 Longfeather was in the council, and Black Eagle 
 turned to him. "I never heard it," said he. 
 
 "ilt might be possible," suggested the Chief, "to 
 get this lady to take the school here, or, if the gov- 
 ernment would not appoint her, we might hire her 
 and build a new school. Then those who wanted to 
 send their children to the government school could 
 do so, and the others could send to the lady." 
 
 "It is not that," Black Eagle responded ; "we think 
 the Chief should marry." 
 
 "But you know, Black Eagle, that among the 
 Ojibways, as among the whites, it is the man who 
 asks and the woman who decides. The white 
 squaw at Moose River might not want me, a 
 stranger whom she never heard of. Think of ask- 
 ing her to go with a husband to a strange people !" 
 
 "It would be strange if Chief Soangetaha were 
 denied," said the old man, simply, "and Soangetaha 
 will not be denied if he does not ask." 
 
 "True," said the Chief. "My friends, I will think 
 of it." 
 
 367
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Thus, true to Indian ways, did Strongheart end 
 the council to the satisfaction of the members, by 
 temporizing. He was not committed to any course ; 
 it was most unreasonable to suppose that he would 
 be convinced at a first discussion ; the old men them- 
 selves had thought and talked of the matter for a 
 month before proposing it. He would think it over. 
 Good ! and the dusky advisers of the Chief puffed 
 their respective ways homeward. 
 
 Next day came Winterton to the reservation. He 
 went to the Chief's house, and Strongheart found 
 him there when he went home for dinner. They 
 ate together, smoked together, and talked of various 
 matters connected with the reservation. 
 
 "You been makin' a lot of improvements, Soan- 
 getaha," said Winterton, after a time. 
 
 "Yes? how?" responded the Chief, doubtfully. 
 
 "Why, the gardens look better, more businesslike. 
 And that's a good idea of straightenin' the trail to 
 the turnpike and makin' it more like a wagon road. 
 And there's something about the houses here and 
 there that looks as if somebody'd come along with 
 an eye to slickin' things up." 
 
 "You notice such things?" exclaimed Strong- 
 heart. "Now that's a bit encouraging, Winterton. 
 I couldn't see that I'd made any impression with my 
 ideas." 
 
 "Oh, you have. 'Taint all of 'em will do what you 
 want, and none of 'em will do all you want yet. 
 But the time will come. You've only got to keep at 
 it. You can't learn an old fellow much, red or 
 
 368
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 white. It's the young, Soangetaha. They'll learn." 
 
 "Yes," and the Chief subsided again into his cus- 
 tomary melancholy. The young! How could he 
 bend them in the right direction if the old resisted 
 him with their adamantine, reason-defying stolid- 
 ity? 
 
 "I got a letter from Dick Livingston day before 
 yesterday," said Winterton. 
 
 "Ah? How is he?" 
 
 "I dunno. He didn't say." 
 
 They communed silently with their respective 
 pipes for at least a minute. Then said Winterton, 
 "You hain't kep' track of Dick very close since you 
 left school, have you ?" 
 
 "No," Strongheart replied, "I have not. What 
 made you think so?" 
 
 "Because he asked me so much about you. 'Pears 
 he doesn't know for sure where you are, or even 
 that you're alive." 
 
 "Is he coming up this Summer?" 
 
 "Wai, seems doubtful like. His letter wants to 
 know if I'm engaged, and if I'm not, he takes me for 
 the whole Summer. But he don't say he's comin'. 
 Just says to me, says the letter, don't take any other 
 business. If I decide not to come, I'll pay for your 
 whole time just the same. Funny ! Like Dick, ain't 
 it?" 
 
 "Livingston is a very rich and a very generous 
 man. Does he speak of Nelson in his letter?" 
 
 "No, not a word. 'Pears to be comin' alone, if 
 he comes. I dunno what to make of it." 
 
 369
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "But that's easy, Winterton. You've got your 
 Summer's job, whatever happens. J, should think 
 you'd like the proposition." 
 
 "Hm-hm," murmured Winterton, dubiously. 
 
 "So Dick asked about me, did he?" said Strong- 
 heart, after a long pause. 
 
 "Yes, and I got to write him all I know." 
 
 "Well, why don't you?" 
 
 "Huh! I wasn't born with a pen in my hand, 
 and it's a whole lot to put into a letter. I don't feel 
 equal to it. I thought mebbe you'd write the letter 
 yourself." 
 
 "Is that what brought you to the reservation, 
 Winterton ?" 
 
 "Hm-hm, that's just it. You know the facts bet- 
 ter'n I do, and you know how to say 'em on paper. 
 Like enough I should forget half of 'em, and the 
 best half at that." 
 
 "But there isn't so much to say. Just tell him 
 I'm alive and trying to do my duty to my people. 
 That's all there is to it." 
 
 "Wai," said Winterton, thoughtfully, "I dunno 
 but that's so. You ain't married, and you ain't 
 thinkin' of it, be ye? thought not. That seems 
 to be the whole thing after all. Just write that 
 and give him your regards, and I reckon 'twould 
 do." 
 
 "I think," suggested Strongheart, "that you'd 
 better cut out the regards. He might misunderstand 
 that, you know. He wouldn't dream of your com- 
 ing away up here to find out what he wants to 
 
 370
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 know. Write just as if you hadn't seen me for a 
 year." 
 
 "Why not write yourself, Soangetaha?" 
 
 "Because it's your letter. He asked you. Have 
 you written him that you're going to take his offer ?" 
 
 "Not yet. I was going to." 
 
 "Then write it now, and when you've said what 
 you want to on that matter, I'll tell you what to 
 write about me, if you like." 
 
 "That would be a monstrous help," said Winter- 
 ton, gratefully. 
 
 Strongheart provided paper and pen, and for 
 some minutes the veteran guide labored over the four 
 lines that conveyed his acceptance of Livingston's 
 offer for the Summer. "Reckon I'm ready," said 
 he, at last. Strongheart dictated: 
 
 "Soangetaha is living at the reservation with his 
 sister, and is trying to do his duty by his people. 
 He was in good health the last time I saw him." 
 
 Winterton patiently set down the words with 
 only one interruption. "Hold on a minute," said he ; 
 "do you spell people with two e's or one?" 
 
 "It doesn't matter, Winterton," Strongheart an- 
 swered gravely. "It's your letter, and he will under- 
 stand it if you take your choice." 
 
 Winterton choose to spell it "peeple," and in due 
 course signed his name with a sigh of relief that a 
 difficult and delicate task had been accomplished.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE WHITE SQUAW 
 
 Dick Livingston started westward by the first 
 convenient train after the receipt of Winterton's 
 letter, but he did not buy a ticket for the Soo. His 
 destination lay much further, and when he had gone 
 as far as the railroad could take him, he had still a 
 day's journey to make on horseback. He began it 
 before sunrise, and, by dint of persistent pushing, 
 he arrived late in the afternoon at Moose River 
 reservation. . There he inquired for the school- 
 house, and eventually dismounted before a building 
 of unhewn logs. The door was open, and from with- 
 in came the sound of a voice he knew, a sound that 
 set his blood coursing, and caused him to catch his 
 breath with a gasp. (Impulsively he lifted his hat, as 
 if the speaker were in his presence ; he stirred as if 
 he would enter the open door, and hesitated as a 
 sensitive traveler might who found himself before 
 a holy shrine ; his steps lagged in spite of his desire 
 to run. So, for a moment, he stood still, collecting 
 himself and listening. What was she saying? 
 There could be no mistaking her voice, there was 
 none like it in the world, and evidently the syllables 
 were uttered with the delicate, clean-cut enunciation 
 characteristic of her speech, but such syllables! 
 
 372
 
 WAS IT TO HEAR THIS THAT HE HAD TRAVELED SO MAN!" HUNDRED MILES?
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 What were they? What meaning of a sudden one 
 word stood out distinct and clear from the run of 
 gibberish, and, with a chill at his heart, he recog- 
 nized it: "Kahween." It was the one word he had 
 distinguished in a speech by Strongheart when he 
 lay 'incapacitated in Kiwetin's wigwam, kahween 
 no! W T as it to hear this that he had traveled so 
 many hundred miles? Ah, well, he had anticipated 
 it. His mind was made up ; it was only his foolish 
 heart that had presumed to excite itself with hope. 
 The heart had been stilled for more than two years ; 
 it could and would be stilled again. Let the Ojib- 
 way negative presage what it might, he would learn 
 the truth, and take his course manfully in accord- 
 ance with it. 
 
 There was a rustling of soft-shod feet, and two 
 figures appeared in the doorway, Dorothy and a 
 seven-year old boy whom she held by the hand, his 
 chubby cheeks tear-stained, his lips yet pouting, but 
 his eyes instantly taking on the fulness of joy at 
 sight of the stranger. 
 
 "Why, Dick!" cried Dorothy, deserting the boy 
 and advancing swiftly. "Dick !" she repeated, as he 
 took her hand and looked into her eyes, unable to 
 speak a word. "I am so glad to see you, Dick. 
 How good pf you to look me up! Have you just 
 arrived ?" 
 
 Livingston pointed to his horse, whose sleek 
 flanks gave glistening evidence of hard and recent 
 ridings. "I've been out of the saddle only once in the 
 last twelve hours," he said. 
 
 373
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Then you and your horse both need rest and re- 
 freshment. The animal should certainly be stabled 
 at once. Oh ! that can be done. The reservation 
 doesn't boast of a hotel, but the trader, at whose 
 house I boarded when I first came here, always con- 
 trives to look after the rare travelers who come this 
 way. He has a spare room for wanderers like yourself." 
 
 "I am indeed a wanderer, Dorothy." 
 
 She did not respond at once, but addressed the 
 lad in his own language. There was a rapt grin on 
 his face as he listened, and when she had concluded 
 he glanced shyly at Livingston and reached his 
 hand out for the horse's bridle. 
 
 "I told him," said Dorothy, "to lead your horse to 
 the stable and tell the trader that a friend of mine 
 has come. That will assure proper care for the horse, 
 and we will go down to the trader's together after 
 supper, which I want you to take in my house. 
 Does that plan suit you?" 
 
 "Right down to the ground, Dorothy. What's 
 your noble young red man's name?" 
 
 "That is Washkash, my favorite charge, if I have 
 a favorite. He is the brightest and most mischie- 
 vous boy in the school. I had to keep him after the 
 others were dismissed today to chasten his dawning 
 mind with a lecture." 
 
 "Your youngsters have the same conception of 
 the relation between fun and school that white boys 
 have, it seems." 
 
 "Of course, Dick. Would you expect them to be 
 anything but human?" 
 
 374
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "No, I wouldn't, not after knowing not after my 
 own observations of some years ago." 
 
 "Tell me all the news, Dick," she said quickly, but 
 without haste, thus covering the sudden embarrass- 
 ment that had caused him to stumble in his speech. 
 "Or, perhaps," she added, "you don't know any. 33 
 heard of your journey round the world. Have you 
 been back long?" 
 
 "Two or three weeks. I only waited till I got cer- 
 tain information before I started for this place." 
 
 "Then, if you were seeking information, you have 
 a budget of news." 
 
 "Some. The most important item was your pre- 
 cise whereabouts." 
 
 "Well, that happens to be known to me. Tell me 
 something I don't know." 
 
 "Have you heard about Molly?" 
 
 "Only that she and Billy Saunders were married. 
 Cards reached me, and one sweet letter from her 
 forwarded by my mother. After that I suppose she 
 was too busy with the duties of her new life to keep 
 up a correspondence, and indeed I did not expect 
 her to. I had deliberately shut myself out of my 
 former world, and almost preferred that my old 
 friends should not write." 
 
 "Molly says that she understood it that way. I 
 can assure you, Dorothy, Molly wouldn't have gone 
 back on you." 
 
 "Oh ! I never doubted her. But what of her?" 
 
 "Her son" 
 
 "Oh, Dick! Molly has a baby?" 
 375
 
 "Three months old. Billy's pride is so great that 
 all outdoors is strained to hold him. He's already 
 picked out the young gentleman's room at Colum- 
 bia and says he's going to put him into football 
 training this Fall." 
 
 Dorothy laughed delightedly, that wholesome 
 laugh he knew only too well, the laugh that "took 
 the edge off her altruism and proved her sane," as he 
 himself had put it in the old days. "What do they 
 call him?" she asked. 
 
 "I regret to say they've handicapped him by nam- 
 ing him Richard." 
 
 "Handicapped ! Why, Dick !" 
 
 "Well, I haven't been such a great success, have J, 
 Dorothy ?" 
 
 "Molly must be very happy," said Dorothy. 
 "You've seen my mother, I suppose?" 
 
 "It was she who gave me your address." 
 
 "To be sure, for she's the only one who knows it, 
 except my lawyer. As I am no longer an infant in 
 the eyes of the law, I have to have a lawyer to look 
 after my possessions. He sends me an accounting 
 at intervals, and money when I ask for it." 
 
 There was a momentary pause in the conversa- 
 tion, and then Livingston said, "I ran across Frank 
 in London." 
 
 "How is he?" asked Dorothy, quickly. 
 
 "In perfect health, it seemed to me. He had just 
 won a medal in a photographic exhibition." 
 
 "That must have pleased him," and she breathed 
 a sigh that did not escape her companion's attention. 
 
 376
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "Don't you hear from Frank at all ?" he asked. 
 
 "No, Dick. I am sorry, but Frank could not ap- 
 prove my course, you know " 
 
 "And so he cut you !" exclaimed Livingston, in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be quite as fair to say that I cut him ?" 
 she returned gently. "I insisted on the unconven- 
 tional, he stood for the proprieties. Action was 
 wholly on my part. I knew his displeasure and de- 
 liberately brooked it. I am sorry, but I could not 
 do otherwise, and I have nothing but kindly feel- 
 ings for my brother." 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't expect anything else of you, 
 Dorothy. I told Frank I meant to look you up." 
 
 "Did you? Did he send any message?" She 
 spoke with impulsive eagerness, and Livingston 
 was suddenly embarrassed. What Frank had said 
 was, "I hope you'll bring the silly girl to her 
 senses," and Livingston had no mind to quote that 
 to her. 
 
 "He seemed interested in the idea," said Living- 
 ston, lamely, and Dorothy quickly saved him the 
 necessity of inventing a message. 
 
 "I think I know pretty well what Frank would 
 say," she said, and laughed a little. "For brother 
 and sister we are very different, aren't we? This is 
 my house, Dick. Unless my little maid has met 
 with an accident we shall find supper ready." 
 
 They had been walking along a trail past scat- 
 tered cabins, and Dorothy led him to one quite like 
 the rest in dimensions and quality; but it had a 
 
 377
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 touch of civilization apparent at first glance, for 
 there were cultivated flowers in the yard before it, 
 there were white curtains in the windows, and the 
 steps of the door were scrupulously clean. There 
 Dorothy lived alone, save for the companionship of 
 an Ojibway girl of fourteen, or thereabouts, who was 
 her servant. Even when he had crossed the thresh- 
 old it was hard for Livingston to realize where he 
 was, Dorothy's decision to devote her life to Indian 
 education having appealed to him, as to the mem- 
 bers of her family, as preposterously romantic and 
 impracticable. He had necessarily stood apart from 
 the storm that raged in the Nelson's home after 
 Strongheart's departure from college. Frank had 
 spoken little of it, only enough to show that his 
 friendship for Strongheart had turned into bitter, 
 unrelenting hostility, and Dorothy had kept aloof 
 from Dick until it was all over, and when that time 
 came, Dorothy had gone. Jn all -his long journey 
 around the world, Livingston had repeatedly said to 
 himself that when he returned he would find Doro- 
 thy again in the familiar atmosphere of the city, 
 doing good, and enjoying life, chastened probably 
 by her more or less brief experience in the wilds. It 
 was a shock to him, therefore, to discover from his 
 meeting with Frank in London, that brother and 
 sister were alienated, and that Dorothy was still an 
 exile "among savages," as Frank expressexi it. In 
 New York, Livingston sought Mrs. Nelson within 
 an hour of his landing. 
 
 "Do go to her," said the mother, with a sigh of 
 378
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 respectable despair. "I have quite given her up, 
 and if anybody can bring her back to civilization, it 
 will be you, Dick." 
 
 And Dick had delayed his departure only until he 
 had heard from Winterton. 
 
 So, this was her home among "savages." Every 
 inch of space within the cabin breathed of refine- 
 ment. The simple touches which a man feels but 
 cannot define were there, from the freshly cut flow- 
 ers on the table to the spotless white apron the lit- 
 tle maid wore when serving the food. Dorothy was 
 vivacious, and manifestly habituated to her sur- 
 roundings. Only now and again was there a pass- 
 ing wistfulness in her glance to suggest remem- 
 brance of other things, and this came only when 
 some remark of her visitor's tended to awaken 
 recollection. He was chary of such remarks until the 
 meal was over, and they sat in the yard before the 
 house, he smoking, she busy with needlework. Then, 
 said he, "Tell me, Dorothy, are you contented here?" 
 
 "Do I not seem so?" she responded, bending over 
 her w r ork so that he could not see her eyes. The 
 question had to come ; she knew that, and she had 
 staved it off as long as was practicable. 
 
 "That is not quite the frank answer I should 
 expect from you," said he. 
 
 Thus challenged, she looked up and held him with 
 her eyes. "I do not regret leaving home, Dick," she 
 said. "I wish devoutly that I might have the sym- 
 pathy of my mother and brother, not to say their 
 approval, but that was not to be. My life must be 
 
 379
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 useful. Here, while I do not accomplish all that I 
 would like to, for the task is too great for one per- 
 son, I am at least doing something. I think my 
 influence is for the good of the people, and even if J 
 were to leave them now, I should be able to count 
 some permanent marks of progress, for my money 
 has enabled me to do material things that perhaps 
 partly atone for my failure to reach the people in the 
 best way, that is, through their minds. You asked 
 if I were contented. No, not wholly, but I would 
 not go back, Dick." 
 
 "You would spare me asking you to go back with 
 me, and for me, Dorothy." 
 
 "Yes, Dick. I hoped we were again on the level 
 of friendship, and that your travels had dimmed the 
 dream you once cherished." 
 
 "It hasn't, Dorothy, but it has given me some 
 sense, a truer view of life, I hope." 
 
 He was silent for a moment, and then, "Dorothy, 
 I'm not going to ask you to go back. Let us be 
 friends. There will always be a room in my heart 
 where you will dwell alone, but I will keep it closed 
 as far as may be even to myself. I asked you if 
 you were contented, and I understand most of your 
 answer. Tell me as a friend, do you still think of 
 Strongheart as you used to?" 
 
 The color rose to her brow, and again she bent 
 over her work. 
 
 "Am I one to change, Dick?" she murmured. 
 
 "No! you are not, and I should have known it. 
 Have you ever heard from him ?" 
 
 380
 
 STRON GHEART 
 
 "Never. Strongheart gave me to understand be- 
 fore he left for his tribe, that it must be all or 
 nothing. He was sure he could not give himself 
 entirely to his people if he kept in touch with me, 
 and I believed him. He was right. It was a sacri- 
 fice that could not be half made. It had to be genu- 
 ine and complete." 
 
 "And you think it was a sacrifice?" 
 
 "Strongheart loved me, Dick." 
 
 There was no need of further questions, for Liv- 
 ingston had only to look into his own heart to know 
 the measure of the Ojibway's sacrifice. He looked 
 at the darkening pines, the white trail that disap- 
 peared beneath their shadows, the golden-edged 
 clouds of the sunset, and at the busy fingers and 
 absorbed face of the woman beside him. 
 
 "Is it far to the trader's?" he asked. "I think 
 perhaps I should make my way there now." 
 
 "You must be tired," said she, laying aside her 
 work, and rising. "I will have my maid go with us 
 to help bring back some things I want at the store." 
 
 They talked of the reservation on the way, Doro- 
 thy telling bits of family histories as they passed 
 one cabin after another, or as they met men and 
 women on the trail. The little maid walked close 
 behind. The clouds cast off their gold and silver 
 ornaments, the stars began to peer at them, and 
 twinkling lights appeared here and there on the 
 plain. They came to the trader's store and dwell- 
 ing, where Livingston found that he was expected. 
 
 "Shall I see you tomorrow, Dick?" asked Doro- 
 381
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 thy, when her purchases were made and she was 
 ready to start homeward. 
 
 "Not tomorrow," said he. "I have another long 
 journey to make, but you shall hear from me soon, 
 and I shall hope to see you again in the Fall." 
 
 They said good-bye as friends, and Livingston, 
 standing on the stoop of the store, strained his eyes 
 after her until she and the little maid merged in the 
 darkness. Before daybreak he was in the saddle 
 again, hurrying eastward. 
 
 382
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE HORNS OF A MOOSE 
 
 Winterton met Livingston at the railway station 
 in the Soo. "I got your telegram," he said, after 
 the handshake, "Soangetaha ain't at the reservation 
 just now." 
 
 "So?" exclaimed Livingston, disappointed, "where 
 is he, then?" 
 
 "Up to the Summer village. He don't go there 
 now fo the fun of it, as he used to, he's too busy, 
 but some of the people are up there. Tears a fam- 
 ily feud broke out and they had to send for the 
 Chief to settle it." 
 
 "A feud! Something serious, Steve?" 
 
 "Reckon not. They ain't usually. Some of the 
 squaws get to scrappin' 'bout some gossip of one 
 kind or another, and 'fore you know it the men get 
 dragged in, and there's hell to pay. There's never 
 no bloodshed, if that's what you mean by serious, 
 'cept as some buck gets his nose cracked by an- 
 other buck's fist. Sometimes the squaws heave 
 rocks at each others' wigwams, and a dish or two 
 gets broke, but it's mostly talk back and forth, and 
 threats, like they was going to take the warpath 
 
 383
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 against the Sioux. The chiefs generally let such 
 ructions run their course, but when they're called on 
 to settle things, they have to act, and Chief Soan- 
 getaha don't generally wait to be called in. He gets 
 his old Indian up and makes 'em take notice pretty 
 sudden like. There's no disobeyin' Soangetaha 
 when he puts his foot down and says things final." 
 "I think we'd better start for the Summer village 
 at once, Steve. The fact that Strongheart has a 
 row on his hands needn't make any difference to my 
 errand. Can we catch up with him, do you think?" 
 "Wai, he started last night. At the worst we 
 might meet him on the way back." 
 "Are you ready for a quick start?" 
 "Hm-hm. I done all your telegram said." 
 It was then noon, and within an hour, equipped 
 for a very long journey, they had left the Soo be- 
 hind them. Shortly after daybreak on the third 
 morning, they threaded a group of familiar islands 
 in the inland lake, and Livingston, at the bow, saw 
 the conical dwellings of the Ojibways on the distant 
 shore, and the wavering smoke of a score of camp- 
 fires. His heart swelled with memories, and for a 
 moment his spirit was in rebellion, for it was there, 
 on that pleasant shore, that he had bent all his 
 enthusiastic energies to the accomplishment of a 
 plan that had borne fruit in fixing Dorothy's love 
 upon another. He was conscious of an impulse to 
 back water, and he wondered if Winterton noticed 
 the momentary sluggishness of the bow paddle? It 
 was no more than momentary, this involuntary re- 
 
 384
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 sistance of the heart to a course that the mma nad 
 dictated, and the canoe sped onward. Mind, that is 
 to say, well considered judgment, was in command 
 of Dick Livingston, and had been for long. The in- 
 terval occupied in circling the globe had been one of 
 preparation; the meeting with Nelson in London 
 had been the crisis, and then and there he had de- 
 termined his procedure, his precise action to depend 
 only on the precise state of affairs concerning which 
 he had been seeking information from Mrs. Nelson, 
 from Dorothy, and from Winterton. In view of the 
 latter's meagre message, it was now necessary to 
 learn something from Strongheart. 
 
 The approach of the travelers was comparatively 
 unnoticed in the village, for few were stirring at 
 that early hour, but there was one who caught sight 
 of the canoe as soon as it had cleared the islands, 
 and who glanced at it with increasing curiosity 
 from time to time as he busied himself with prep- 
 arations for departure. Strongheart had traveled 
 hard, too. He had arrived on the previous day, had 
 composed the quarrel before the night was old, and 
 now, having allowed himself a brief respite for sleep, 
 was making ready to return to the reservation. 
 There was no hail, no waving of a signal to suggest 
 the identity of the oncomers, but presently the 
 Chief's sharp eyes distinguished Winterton, and 
 then he inferred the approach of Livingston. Who 
 else could it be? 
 
 So it happened that the white man who de- 
 liberately sought a meeting, had no undue advan- 
 
 385
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 tage in taking the Indian by surprise. Strongheart 
 kept at his work, thinking, wondering, and Living- 
 ston kept at his paddle, with not a little last-minute 
 doubt as to how he should greet his former friend. 
 At the proper time Strongheart gave over his work 
 and went to the landing place to assist in bringing 
 the canoe to shore. The silent Mukwa was there, 
 too, and both held the craft by the gunwale while 
 Winterton and Livingston disembarked. Meantime 
 there had been such an exchange of "bozhos" be- 
 tween the parties as might have betokened a meet- 
 ing after a day's absence. 
 
 Livingston, once on shore, dropped his paddle, 
 and turned to Strongheart. The Chief was looking 
 a doubtful inquiry at him. Their eyes met in honest 
 challenge, and there was a slight pause that even 
 the unimaginative Winterton perceived; then the 
 old-time comradeship, the old-time mutual trust and 
 admiration, the old-time affection, struck down the 
 barrier at a blow; two hands were extended as by 
 one impulse; "Dick!" and "Strongheart!" sounded 
 together, and each man came nigh to crushing the 
 other's fingers to pulp. A Canada bird shouted his 
 morning song from a near-by tree, and old Winter- 
 ton rubbed the back of his hand thoughtfully across 
 his chin, and wondered slowly just what it was he 
 had been privileged to witness. 
 
 "I've come to see you," said Livingston. 
 
 "Yes?" returned Strongheart, with an apologetic 
 glance around ; "the old wigwam you occupied is 
 not set up this Summer. I have no dwelling here " 
 
 386
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 "It doesn't matter," Livingston interposed. "I'm 
 not seeking your hospitality, old chap. Come up 
 the trail a bit with me." 
 
 A few paces took them beyond the range of 
 others' eyes and ears, and in the edge of the forest 
 Livingston halted. 
 
 "Strongheart," he said, "I'm ready now to take 
 back all I said the night when I behaved so like a 
 cad." 
 
 "All, Dick?" 
 
 "Every word. I'm older, old chap, but that isn't 
 it. I've been globe-trotting since then, and I've 
 seen all manner of people. I should be a fool in- 
 deed if that sort of observation didn't open my eyes 
 some, but that isn't it either, that is, not all of it. 
 I have been helped by travel, I think, but there's 
 something else, something native to myself, I sup- 
 pose, that was late in developing hang it! I can't 
 very well make a speech about it." 
 
 "Don't try, Dick. What do X care for your anal- 
 ysis if you really mean that you take back all? 
 All! You can't imagine how I have wished and 
 hoped, yes, I have dared to hope that some day you 
 would." 
 
 "But that isn't enough," said Livingston, hastily. 
 "I had my unhappy share in keeping apart two 
 persons whom God Almighty had raised up and 
 fitted the one for the other." 
 
 His voice shook, and Strongheart said, "Don't, 
 Dick ! Not only does it bring back the memory of 
 vain dreams, but it is unfair to yourself. My own 
 
 387
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 people were as much to blame as yours. Whichever 
 way I turned, I confronted the same unyielding 
 prejudice of race." 
 
 "Yes, I heard something of that, but, see here, 
 Strongheart, I've got to ask you a brutally frank 
 question. Do you feel toward Dorothy as you used 
 to?" 
 
 "Dick," said Strongheart, "can one who loves 
 Dorothy change?" 
 
 "No! No! He couldn't! Do you know where she 
 is?" 
 
 "I do not. I had to shut her out of my life, else 
 she would have lingered in my hopes, and that 
 would have impeded the work I was called on to 
 do. She understood that. Is she not in New 
 York?" 
 
 "If she were would you go to see her?" 
 
 "Certainly not, Dick. Don't be unkind to me, my 
 friend. It will do no good to torment me but," 
 and his eyes took on a sudden expression of fear, 
 "if she were ill Dick! is that it? Is she suffering, 
 and does she need me?" 
 
 "Easy, old chap; she is in the most abundant 
 good health, but whether she needs you well, I 
 have my opinion. Now look here. The race prej- 
 udice of the whites can be defied. I don't know 
 whether that of the Indian can, or can not, and that's 
 not my affair. That's up to you, and you must 
 manage it as best you can, but this is it, Strong- 
 heart : I've made it my business to interfere in your 
 affairs so far as to come here and tell you that 
 
 388
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Dorothy is teaching the Indians at the Moose River 
 reser " 
 
 "Moose River!" shouted Strongheart, starting as 
 if he had been struck by a rifle ball. "Moose 
 River? Dick! did you say Moose River?" and he 
 brought both his hands violently down on Living- 
 ston's shoulders. 
 
 "Yes," replied Livingston, staggering, "Moose 
 River. I s'pose you know where 'tis ?" 
 
 "The White Squaw!" exclaimed Strongheart, 
 under his breath, and looking far, far away. 
 
 Livingston was puzzled, as a matter of course, 
 and, after a moment of helpless staring at the rapt 
 gaze of the Indian, he said, "That's what I came to 
 say, Strongheart. It's now up to you, and Winter- 
 ton and : I will go on. We're bound on an all-Sum- 
 mer trip to the north." 
 
 "Ah !" and Strongheart returned to the imme- 
 diate scene, "you are going on? Then you won't 
 mind if I go on also? I was getting ready to start, 
 and Dick, do you know what you have done for me ?" 
 
 "I hope so," replied Livingston, with a sigh, 
 "honestly, I hope so." 
 
 They began to retrace their steps to the shore, 
 Strongheart leading. He almost broke into a run. 
 "Mukwa! Mukwa! the canoe, quick!" he called. 
 "You see, Dick," he added, "there's only one train 
 a day from the Soo that will take me in the direc- 
 tion of Moose River, and if I push hard, I may be 
 able to save a day. Do you understand?'* 
 
 389
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 Dorothy was at supper, alone, save for the little 
 maid, when Strongheart appeared in her doorway. 
 All the color fled from her face, her hand fell nerve- 
 less on the table; if he had spoken at once, she 
 might not have known how to reply; but his heart 
 was in his throat, the words he had prepared to say 
 seemed so inadequate, so unnecessary, for it was 
 enough at the moment to be conscious of nearness 
 to her; so she had a little time to recover, and she 
 arose with one hand outstretched, the other resting 
 on the chair back, for she dared not trust herself to 
 step across the narrow space that separated them. 
 
 "Strongheart," she said, bravely trying to speak 
 with the naturalness of friendship, and the unnatu- 
 ralness therefore, of agitated love, I did not expect 
 you of course I am glad to see you won't you 
 come in?" 
 
 "I came to get you," said he, without stirring. 
 
 Her hand dropped to her side. She did not, or 
 would not, understand. 
 
 "Dick Livingston called on me, too," she said 
 hurriedly. "It was only a few days ago. I wouldn't 
 have thought to see another of my old friends in the 
 same Summer. He said I should hear from him 
 soon." 
 
 "He sent me to you," said Strongheart. "That 
 was what he meant." 
 
 "Do you mean he sent a message?" 
 
 "No, he sent me. He told me where you were 
 and what you were doing. Dorothy, I have come 
 for you." 
 
 390
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 He crossed the threshold and held out both 
 hands. She had to use both hers to overcome her 
 trembling, and she looked at him with fear in her 
 eyes. She could not affect to misunderstand longer. 
 
 "But, Strongheart," she whispered, "your peo- 
 pie-" 
 
 "They have chosen you for my bride," said he. 
 "Do I seem to rave? Dorothy, it is true. Your 
 fame as a teacher and friend of the Indian has 
 spread to the home of my people. They tell admir- 
 ing stories about the White Squaw at Moose River. 
 Black Eagle and the old men told me about you, 
 and asked me to make you my wife. They did not 
 know your name, and how could I suspect it? I 
 put them off, and it was not until Dick came to me 
 that I understood that the long trial of love was 
 over, that loneliness and failure might vanish from 
 my life, giving way to love and victory. Oh, Dor- 
 othy ! I have toiled hard, I have kept my pledge to 
 give all to my people. Let me now give them more! 
 Come with me ! My people mourn because their 
 Chief is unhappy ; he is unhappy because he cannot 
 accomplish alone what will be assured with your 
 aid. I need you, Dorothy, my people need you " 
 
 He could not tell the tumult wrought by doubt 
 changing to joy as she listened; how her first 
 thought inevitably had been that love had broken 
 down his purpose, and how she feared that, in spite 
 of his apostasy, he would win her, and how the dem- 
 onstration of his loyalty to both his people and her 
 opened up such prospects of happiness as she had 
 
 391
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 schooled herself to believe were not for her. He 
 only saw that she was trembling, that her eyes filled 
 with tears, and thinking, quite mistakenly but sin- 
 cerely, that she was about to faint, he strode to- 
 ward her. She met him half way and sank con- 
 sciously, voluntarily, into his unfolding arms. "Ah, 
 Strongheart, my love ! and I need you !" she said. 
 
 And so it came about one Summer day that 
 Moose River was in tears, for the beloved White 
 Squaw, the Lady of the Good H?art, went away, 
 never to return. The people knew what had hap- 
 pened, and knew, therefore, that the end had to be 
 so, for when a woman loves, must she not follow 
 her husband? It is ever so among all people of all 
 races, and the Indians, who had come to revere 
 Dorothy, smiled back their sorrow and wished her 
 joy. And so, too, it came about that there was 
 rejoicing on that other reservation far eastward; 
 for the people there knew that at last their Chief 
 would be happy, and in his happiness they foresaw 
 their own permanent benefit from his wisdom and 
 guidance. The little church could not hold a tithe 
 of those who insisted on their right to see the cere- 
 mony that gave the Chief a bride, and the missionary 
 accordingly went forth into the open field where 
 was the stump of a great tree to serve as an altar; 
 and there Strongheart and Dorothy were married 
 in the presence of the whole tribe. 
 
 It was a holiday for all, and much singing and 
 dancing had been arranged to fill in the evening by 
 the light of a huge camp-fire ; a programme that was 
 
 392
 
 STRONGHEART 
 
 faithfully and pleasantly carried out ; but before the 
 fun began, a stranger came to the reservation, an 
 O jib way, whom none there had ever seen before. 
 His dress and speech both proclaimed him one of 
 those uncounted people of the north whom no per- 
 suasion of the government can induce to leave their 
 forest homes and take up the comparatively con- 
 ventional life of the reservation. He was bowed 
 under a burden consisting of the antlers of a moose. 
 
 "Is your Chief called Soangetaha?" he asked of 
 the first he met, and when they told him yes, "I was 
 sent," said he, "by a white man named Dick, who is 
 hunting in the north. These are the horns of the 
 first moose he ever shot. He bade me bring them 
 here, and, if Chief Soangetaha is married, to give 
 them to him and his wife as a wedding present. Is 
 your Chief married ? For, if not " 
 
 They did not let him state his alternative, but 
 took him at once to the Chief's house, where he laid 
 down his burden and repeated his message. 
 
 END 
 
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