She leaned back among the pillows that her nurse had arranged so comfortably before she had departed for a short horseback ride with Harry.
From where she sat Mrs. Wilson could look out of the window and watch the trail down which she would soon see the young people returning.
Then again she fell to dreaming. Perhaps she would live long enough to see both of her boys married, and it might be that in some future day she would be seated in front of this same fireplace watching another log burn and holding a wee grandchild. Tears sprang to her eyes as she pictured her beloved husband growing old with her and little ones playing about them.
This happy reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching ponies. It might be the men from the North Camp for the nurse and Harry had not been gone long enough to be returning. She sat watching the picture framed by her window. As the hurrying hoof-beats neared, she guessed, and truly, that there were more than two ponies, for, down the part of the trail that she could see, single file, came six small, wiry horses. Instantly she knew that their riders were from the Indian village.
The little black-haired boy in the lead wore a red feather in the band about his head, and, at his side rode a tall, slender girl with a scarlet blanket about her shoulders. There were four others, but they were dressed in khaki. It was only by their black hair and dusty complexions that she knew that they, too, were Indians. Then it was that Mrs. Wilson recalled something which of late she had forgotten. It was that an Indian maiden from this same Papago village had been East to a fashionable boarding school with Barbara Wente, the fairy-like little girl who was so liked by Benjy.
Perhaps the Winona of whom she had heard, was the tall, graceful Indian maiden riding in the lead with the lad of the red feather, Mrs. Wilson thought, and then, idly, she wondered where they were going. Perhaps to some hunting camp farther north in the mountains.
She was not long left in doubt regarding the destination of the riders, for, almost as soon as they had passed from her vision, there came a rapping on the front door.
Harry had made her promise that she would not leave her chair and so she called, “come in,” hoping that one among the strange visitors might be able to understand the language that she spoke.
The door opened at once and a tall young man with a clear, direct gaze stood before her. To the little woman’s surprise, he spoke excellent English.
“Madame Wilson, I am Strong Heart, chief of the tribe of Papagoes. It is my wish to converse with my sister. One month ago Red Feather returned with the message that Winona was to remain with you and be your nurse.”