Fleda had won old Tekewani's heart when she had
asked him to take her down the Rapids, for the days of adventure for him
and his tribe were over. The adventure shared with this girl had brought
back to the chief the old days when Indian women tanned bearskins and
deerskins day in, day out, and made pemmican of the buffalo-meat; when
the years were filled with hunting and war and migrant journeyings to
fresh game-grounds and pastures new.
Danger faced was the one thing which could restore Tekewani's
self-respect, after he had been checked and rebuked before his tribe by
the Indian Commissioner for being drunk. Danger faced had restored it,
and Fleda Druse had brought the danger to him as a gift.
If the canoe should crash against the piers of the bridge, if it should
drift to the cataract below, if anything should happen to this white girl
whom he worshipped in his heathen way, nothing could preserve his
self-respect; he would pour ashes on his head and firewater down his
throat.
Suddenly he and his braves stood still. They watched as one would watch
an enemy a hundred times stronger than one's self. The white man's skiff
was near the derelict canoe; the bridge was near also. Carillon now lined
the bank of the river with its people.
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