She raised her eyes and lowered them again with a sort of insolence, as though to show her resentment of the fact that he addressed her at all. "I rather guess I'm alive," she answered, curtly, and the visitor turned to the chief. "I saw to-day your child's child in the waters of the Kootenai. I saw the white friend lifting him up out of the river, and fighting with death for him. It would have been a good thing for a man to do, Akkomi. I crossed the water to-night, to see if your boy is well once more, or if there is any way I can do service for the young white squaw who is your friend." The old Indian smoked in silence for a full minute. He was a sharp-eyed, shrewd-faced old fellow. When he spoke, it was in the Chinook jargon, and with a significant nod toward the girl, as though she was not to hear or understand his words. "It is true, the son of my daughter is again alive. The breath was gone when the young squaw reached him, but she was in time. Dan know the young squaw, maybe?" "No, Akkomi. Who?" The old fellow shook his head, as if not inclined to give the information required. "She tell white men if she want white men to know," he observed. "The heart of Akkomi is heavy for her--heavy. A lone trail is a hard one for a squaw in the Kootenai land--a white squaw who is young. She rests here, and may eat of our meat all her days if she will." Overton glanced again at the girl, who was evidently, from the words of the chief, following some lone trail through the wilderness,--a trail starting whence, and leading whither? All that he could read was that no happiness kept her company. "But the life of a red squaw in the white men's camps is a bad life," resumed the old man, after a season of deliberation; "and the life of the white squaw in the red man's village is bad as well." Overton nodded gravely, but said nothing. By the manner of Akkomi, he perceived that some important thought was stirring in the old man's mind, and that it would develop into speech all the sooner if not hurried. "Of all the men of the white camps it is you Akkomi is gladdest to talk to this day," continued the chief, after another season of silence; "for you, Dan, talk with a tongue that is straight, and you go many times where the great towns are built." "The words of Akkomi are true words," assented Overton, "and my ears listen to hear what he will say." "Where the white men live is where this young white squaw should live," said Akkomi, and the listening squaw of Akkomi grunted assent. It was easy to read that she looked with little favor on the strange white girl within their lodge. To be sure, Akkomi was growing old; but the wife of Akkomi had memories of his lusty youth and of various wars she had been forced to wage on ambitious squaws who fancied it would be well to dwell in the lodge of the head chief.