Beside the grave crouched the old Indian woman,
alone and forsaken in her despair, the one mourner
out of all for whom, his life had been given.
No, not the only one; for a tall warrior enters the grove; the Shoshone renegade bends over her and touches her gently on the shoulder.
"Come," he says kindly, "our horses are saddled; we take the trail up the Wauna to-night, I and my friends. We will fly from this fated valley ere the wrath of the Great Spirit falls upon it. Beyond the mountains I will seek a new home with the Spokanes or the Okanogans. Come; my home shall be your home, because you cared for him that is gone."
She shook her head and pointed to the grave.
"My heart is there; my life is buried with him. I cannot go."
Again he urged her.
"No, no," she replied, with Indian stubbornness; "I cannot leave him. Was I not like his mother? How can I go and leave him for others? The roots of the old tree grow not in new soil. If it is pulled up it dies."
"Come with me," said the savage, with a gentleness born of his new faith. "Be my mother. We will talk of him; you shall tell me of him and his God. Come, the horses wait."
Again she shook her head; then fell forward on the grave, her arms thrown out, as if to clasp it in her embrace. He tried to lift her; her head fell back, and she lay relaxed and motionless in his arms.
Another grave was made by Cecil s; and the little band rode through the mountain pass that night, toward the country of the Okanogans, without her.
