“Three cheers for Her,” he shouted, and loud hurrahs followed.
“Three cheers for Ingolby,” another cried, and the noise was boisterous but not so general.
“Who shot Carillon Rapids?” another called in the formula of the West.
“She shot the Rapids,” was the choral reply. “Who is she?” came the antiphon.
“Druse is her name,” was the gay response. “What did she do?”
“She shot Carillon Rapids—shot ‘em dead. Hooray!”
In the middle of the cheering, Osterhaut and Jowett arrived in a wagon which they had commandeered, and, about the same time, from across the bridge, came running Tekewani and his braves.
“She done it like a kingfisher,” cried Osterhaut. “Manitou’s got the belt.”
Fleda Druse’s friendly eyes were given only for one instant to Osterhaut and his friend. Her gaze became fixed on Tekewani who, silent, and with immobile face, stole towards her. In spite of the civilization which controlled him, he wore Indian moccasins and deerskin breeches, though his coat was rather like a shortened workman’s blouse. He did not belong to the life about him; he was a being apart, the spirit of vanished and vanishing days.
“Tekewani—ah, Tekewani, you have come,” the girl said, and her eyes smiled at him as they had not smiled at Ingolby or even at the woman in black beside her.