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.
And that same night, an English exploring vessel far out at sea sailed southward, leaving behind the unknown shores of Oregon,—her crew never dreaming how near they had been to finding the lost wanderer, Cecil Grey.