The artist looked at her fine face, down which the tears were streaming, and asked her the cause of her grief–was the picture such a terrible disappointment?
The woman drew herself together, replying that it was grander than she had anticipated, but the face of Naganit’s[Naganit’s], and, strangely enough, the face she had dreamed of all her life.
“But I am not the heroic youth you pictured”, said the artist, sadly. “I am sixty years old, stoop-shouldered, and one leg is shorter than the other.” “ Naganit[Naganit] looked at the Indian woman. She was not hideous; there was even a dignity to her large, plain features, her great, gaunt form.
“I have never received such praise as yours. I always vowed I would love the woman who really understood me and my art. I am yours. Let us think no more of funeral decorations, but go to the east, to the land of war ponies, and ride to endless joy together.”
Quetajaku, overcome by the majesty of his words, leaned against his massive shoulder. In that way he poled his dog-raft against the current to the entrance of the cave. There was a glory in the reflection from the setting sun over against the east; night would not close in for an hour or two. And towards the darkening east that night two happy travelers could be seen wending their way.
XX
The Little Postmistress
It was long past dark when Mifflin Sargeant, of the Snow Shoe Land Company, came within sight of the welcoming lights of Stover’s. For fourteen miles, through the foothills on the Narrows, he had not seen a sign of human habitation, except one deserted hunter’s cabin at Yankee Gap. There was an air of cheerfulness and life about the building he had arrived at. Several doors opened simultaneously at the signal of his approach, given by a faithful watchdog, throwing the rich glow of the fat-lamps and tallow candles across the road.
The structure, which was very long and two stories high, housed under its accommodating roofs a tavern, a boarding house, a farmstead, a lumber camp, a general store, and a post office. It was the last outpost of civilization in the east end of Brush Valley; beyond were mountains and wilderness almost to Youngmanstown. Tom Tunis had not yet erected the substantial structure on the verge of the forest later known as “The Forest House.”
A dark-complexioned lad, who later proved to be Reuben Stover, the son of the landlord, took the horse by the bridle, assisting the young stranger to dismount. He also helped him to unstrap his saddle-bags, carrying them into the house. Sargeant noticed, as he passed across the porch, that the walls were closely hung with stags’ horns, which showed the prevalence of these noble animals in the neighborhood.