He had clearly read her thought, this
dispossessed, illiterate Indian chieftain. Yet, was he so illiterate? Had
he not read in books which so few have learned to read? His life had been
broken on the rock of civilization, but his simple soul had learned some
elemental truths--not many, but the essential ones, without which there
is no philosophy, no understanding. He knew Fleda Druse was thinking of
her father, wondering if he would understand, half-fearing, hardly
hoping, dreading the moment when she must meet him face to face. She knew
she had been selfish, but would Gabriel Druse understand? She raised her
eyes in gratitude to the Blackfeet chief.
"I must go home," she said.
She turned to go, but as she did so, a man came swaggering down the
street, broke through the crowd, and made towards her with an arm raised,
a hand waving, and a leer on his face. He was a thin, rather handsome,
dissolute-looking fellow of middle height and about forty, in dandified
dress. His glossy black hair fell carelessly over his smooth forehead
from under a soft, wide-awake hat.
"Manitou for ever!" he cried, with a flourish of his hand. "I salute the
brave. I escort the brave to the gates of Manitou. I escort the brave. I
escort the brave.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45