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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Talking Leaves," William O. Stoddard weaves a captivating narrative that merges elements of adventure and cultural exploration. Set against the backdrop of the American frontier, the novel chronicles the journey of young Tuscarora, who embarks on a quest to reclaim his tribe's sacred texts. The prose is imbued with a rich, evocative style that not only captures the essence of Native American folklore but also reflects the broader context of 19th-century American literature, marked by themes of individualism and the clash of cultures. Stoddard's attention to detail brings to life the struggles and resilience of Native peoples, inviting readers to reflect on the importance of heritage and the written word. William O. Stoddard, an influential figure in American literature, was known for his advocacy of Native American rights and his deep appreciation for the natural world, likely drawing from his personal experiences and Eastern seaboard upbringing. His keen interest in Native cultures shines through in this poignant tale, as he illuminates the perspectives of indigenous characters, a rarity for his time and a hallmark of his literary contributions. "The Talking Leaves" will appeal to readers who cherish historical fiction intertwined with rich cultural narratives. It is an indispensable read for those interested in exploring the depths of Native American literature and the complexities of American identity, offering a heartfelt reminder of the power of language and the enduring legacy of oral traditions. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Talking Leaves
Table of Contents
AN INDIAN STORY
CHAPTER I
"Look, Rita! look!"
"What can it mean, Ni-ha-be?"
"See them all get down and walk about."
"They have found something in the grass."
"And they're hunting for more."
Rita leaned forward till her long hair fell upon the neck of the beautiful little horse she was riding, and looked with all her eyes.
"Hark! they are shouting."
"You could not hear them if they did."
"They look as if they were."
Ni-ha-be sat perfectly still in her silver-mounted saddle, although her spirited mustang pony pawed the ground and pulled on his bit as if he were in a special hurry to go on down the side of the mountain.
The two girls were of about the same size, and could not either of them have been over fifteen years old. They were both very pretty, very well dressed and well mounted, and they could both speak in a strange, rough, and yet musical language; but there was no other resemblance between them.
"Father is there, Rita."
"Can you see him?"
"Yes, and so is Red Wolf."
"Your eyes are wonderful. Everybody says they are."
Ni-ha-be might well be proud of her coal-black eyes, and of the fact that she could see so far and so well with them. It was not easy to say just how far away was that excited crowd of men down there in the valley. The air was so clear, and the light so brilliant among those snow-capped mountain ranges, that even things far off seemed sometimes close at hand.
For all that there were not many pairs of eyes, certainly not many brown ones like Rita's, which could have looked, as Ni-ha-be did, from the pass into the faces of her father and brother and recognized them at such a distance.
She need not have looked very closely to be sure of one thing more—there was not a single white man to be seen in all that long, deep, winding green valley.
Were there any white women?
There were plenty of squaws, old and young, but not one woman with a bonnet, shawl, parasol, or even so much as a pair of gloves. Therefore, none of them could have been white.
Rita was as well dressed as Ni-ha-be, and her wavy masses of brown hair were tied up in the same way, with bands of braided deer-skin, but neither of them had ever seen a bonnet. Their sunburnt, healthy faces told that no parasol had ever protected their complexions, but Ni-ha-be was a good many shades the darker. There must have been an immense amount of hard work expended in making the graceful garments they both wore. All were of fine antelope-skin; soft, velvety, fringed, and worked and embroidered with porcupine quills. Frocks and capes and leggings and neatly fitting moccasins, all of the best, for Ni-ha-be was the only daughter of a great Apache chief, and Rita was every bit as important a person according to Indian notions, for Ni-ha-be's father had adopted her as his own.
Either one of them would have been worth a whole drove of ponies or a wagon-load of guns and blankets, and the wonder was that they had been permitted to loiter so far behind their friends on a march through that wild, strange, magnificent land.
Had they been farther to the east, or south, or north, it is likely they would have been kept with the rest pretty carefully; but Many Bears and his band were on their way home from a long buffalo-hunt, and were already, as they thought, safe in the Apache country—away beyond any peril from other tribes of Indians, or from the approach of the hated and dreaded white men.
To be sure, there were grizzly bears and wolves and other wild animals to be found among those mountain passes, but they were not likely to remain very near a band of hunters like the one now gathered in that valley.
Great hunters, brave warriors, well able to take care of themselves and their families, but just now they were very much excited about something—something on the ground.
The younger braves, to the number of more than a hundred, were standing back respectfully, while the older and more experienced warriors carefully examined a number of deep marks on the grass around a bubbling spring.
There had been a camp there not long before, and the first discovery made by the foremost Apache who had ridden up to that spring was that it had not been a camp of his own people.
The prints of the hoofs of horses showed that they had been shod, and there are neither horseshoes nor blacksmiths among the red men of the South-west.
The tracks left by the feet of men were not such as can be made by moccasins. There are no heels on moccasins, and no nails in the soles of them.
Even if there had been Indian feet in the boots, the toes would not have been turned out in walking. Only white men do that.
So much was plain at a mere glance; but there were a good many other things to be studied and interpreted before Many Bears and his followers could feel satisfied.
It was a good deal like reading a newspaper. Nobody tears one up till it has been read through, and the Apaches did not trample the ground around the spring till they had searched out all that the other tramplings could tell them.
Then the dark-faced, ferocious looking warriors who had made the search all gathered around their chief and, one after another, reported what they had found.
There had been a strong party of white men at that spot three days before; three wagons, drawn by mule teams; many spare mules; twenty-five men who rode horses, besides the men who drove the wagons.
"Were they miners?"
Every warrior and chief was ready to say "No" at once.
"Traders?"
No, it could not have been a trading-party.
"All right," said Many Bears, with a solemn shake of his gray head. "Blue-coats—cavalry. Come from Great Father at Washington—no stay in Apache country—go right through—not come back—let them go."
Indian sagacity had hit the nail exactly on the head; for that had been a camp of a United States military exploring expedition, looking for passes and roads, and with instructions to be as friendly as possible with any wandering red men they might meet.
Nothing could be gained by following such a party as that, and Many Bears and his band began at once to arrange their own camp, for their morning's march through the pass had been a long and fatiguing one.
If the Apache chief had known a very little more, he would have sent his best scouts back upon the trail that squad of cavalry had come by, till he found out whether all who were travelling by that road had followed it as far as the spring. He might thus have learned something of special importance to him. Then, at the same time, he would have sent other scouts back upon his own trail, to see if anybody was following him, and what for. He might have learned a good deal more important news in that way.
He did nothing of the kind; and so a very singular discovery was left for Rita and Ni-ha-be to make, without any help at all.
As they rode out from the narrow pass, down the mountain-side, and came into the valley, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to start their swift mustangs on a free gallop; not directly toward the camping-place, for they knew well enough that no girls of any age would be permitted to approach very near to warriors gathered in council. Away to the right they rode, following the irregular curve of the valley, side by side, managing the fleet animals under them as if horse and rider were one person.
So it came to pass that before the warriors had completed their task the two girls had struck the trail along which the blue-coated cavalry had entered the valley.
"Rita, I see something."
"What is it?"
"Come! See! Away yonder."
Rita's eyes were as good as anybody's, always excepting Apaches' and eagles', and she could see the white fluttering object at which her adopted sister was pointing.
The marks of the wheels and all the other signs of that trail, as they rode along, were quite enough to excite a pair of young ladies who had never seen a road, a pavement, a sidewalk, or anything of the sort; but when they came to that white thing fluttering at the foot of a mesquite-bush they both sprung from their saddles at the same instant.
One, two, three—a good deal dog's-eared and thumb-worn, for they had been read by every man of the white party who cared to read them before they were thrown away, but they were very wonderful yet. Nothing of the kind had ever before been imported into that region of the country.
Ni-ha-be's keen black eyes searched them in vain, one after another, for anything she had ever seen before.
"Rita, you are born white. What are they?"
Poor Rita!
Millions and millions of girls have been "born white," and lived and died with whiter faces than her own rosy but sun-browned beauty could boast, and yet never looked into the fascinating pages of an illustrated magazine.
How could any human being have cast away in the wilderness such a treasure?
Rita was sitting on the grass, with one of the strange prizes open in her lap, rapidly turning the leaves, and more excited by what she saw than were Many Bears and his braves by all they were discovering upon the trampled level around the spring.
"Rita," again exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "what are they?"
"They are talking leaves," said Rita.
CHAPTER II
"Did you say, Murray, there were any higher mountains than these?"
"Higher'n these? Why, Steve, the mountains we crossed away back there, just this side of the Texas border, were twice as high, some of them."
"These are big enough. Are there any higher mountains in the world than ours? Did you ever see any?"
"I've seen some of them. I've heard it said the tallest are in India. South America can beat us. I've seen the Andes."
"I don't want to see anything that looks worse to climb than this range right ahead of us."
"Where the Apaches got through, Steve, we can. They're only a hunting-party, too."
"More warriors than we have."
"Only Apaches, Steve. Ours are Lipans. There's a big difference in that, I tell you."
"The Lipans are your friends."
"Yours too, and you must let them think you are their friend—strong. The Apaches are everybody's enemies—mine, yours—only fit to be killed off."
"You've killed some of 'em."
"Not so many as I mean to kill. That's one thing I'm on this trip for. Old Two Knives would almost have given it up if it hadn't been for me."
"I don't feel that way about the Lipans if they did capture me. All I want of them is to get away and go back to the settlements."
"Maybe your folks won't know you when you come."
Steve looked down at his fine muscular form from limb to limb, while the stern, wrinkled face of his companion almost put on a smile.
"I'd have to wash, that's a fact."
"Get off your war-paint. Put on some white men's clothing. Cut your hair."
"They'd know me then."
"You've grown a head taller since you was captured, and they've made a Lipan of you all over but in two places."
"What are they?"
"Your eyes and hair. They're as light as mine were when I was of your age."
"I'm not a Lipan inside, Murray, nor any other kind of Indian. It would take more than three years to do that."
"I've been among 'em seven. But then I never would paint."
The sun and the wind had painted him darkly enough; and if his hair had once been "light," it was now as white as the tops of the mountains he and Steve had been looking at.
Behind them, on a barren sandy level, through which ran a narrow stream of ice-cold water, about three-score of wild-looking human beings were dismounted, almost in a circle, each holding the end of a long "lariat" of strong hide, at the other end of which was a horse.
Some seemed to have two and even three horses, as if they were on an errand which might use up one and call for another. That was quite likely, for Lipan warriors are terribly hard riders.
Those who had now but one horse had probably worn out their first mount and turned him adrift by the way-side, to be picked up, Indian fashion, on the way home.
When a plains Indian leaves a horse in that way, and does not find him again, he tries his best to find some other man's horse to take his place.
More than sixty Indian warriors, all in their war-paint, armed to the teeth, with knives, revolvers, repeating-rifles of the best and latest patterns, and each carrying a long steel-headed Mexican lance.
Not a bow or arrow or war-club among them. All such weapons belong to the old, old times, or to poor, miserable, second-rate Indians, who cannot buy anything better. The fierce and haughty Lipans and Comanches, and other warlike tribes, insist on being armed as well as the United States troops, and even better.
What could a cavalryman do with a lance?
About as much as an Indian with a sword; for that is one weapon the red men could never learn the use of, from King Philip's day to this.
It was luncheon-time with that Lipan war-party, and they were hard at work on their supplies of dried venison and cold roast buffalo-meat.
Their halt would not be a long one in a spot where there was no grass for their horses, but they could hold a council while they were eating, and they could listen to a speech from the short, broad, ugly-looking old chief who now stood in the middle of the circle.
"To-la-go-to-de will not go back now till he has struck the Apaches. He has come too far. The squaws of his village would laugh at him if he rode through the mountains and came back to them with empty hands."
That was the substance of his address, put again and again in different shapes, and it seemed to meet the approval of his listeners.
There is nothing a Lipan brave is really afraid of except ridicule, and the dread of being laughed at was the strongest argument their leader could have used to spur them forward.
Once, indeed, he made another sharp hit by pointing to the spot where Murray and Steve were standing.
"No Tongue has the heart of a Lipan. He says if we go back he will go on alone. He will take the Yellow Head with him. They will not be laughed at when they come back. Will the Lipans let their squaws tell them they are cowards, and dare not follow an old pale-face and a boy?"
A deep, half-angry "ugh" went around the circle.
To-la-go-to-de had won over all the grumblers in his audience, and need not have talked any more.
He might have stopped right there and proceeded to eat another slice of buffalo-meat, but when an Indian once learns to be an orator he would rather talk than eat, any day.
In fact, they are such talkers at home and among themselves, that Murray had earned the queer name given him by the chief in no other way than by his habitual silence. He rarely spoke to anybody, and so he was "No Tongue."
The chief himself had a name of which he was enormously proud, for he had won it on a battle-field. His horse had been killed under him, in a battle with the Comanches, when he was yet a young warrior, and he had fought on foot with a knife in each hand.
From that day forward he was To-la-go-to-de, or "The chief that fights with two knives."
Any name he may have been known by before that was at once dropped and forgotten.
It is a noteworthy custom, but the English have something almost exactly like it. A man in England may be plain Mr. Smith or Mr. Disraeli for ever so many years, and then all of a sudden he becomes Lord So-and-So, and nobody ever speaks of him again by the name he carried when he was a mere "young brave."
It is a great mistake to suppose the red men are altogether different from the white.
As for Steve, his hair was nearer chestnut than yellow, but it had given him his Indian name; one that would stick to him until, like To-la-go-to-de, he should distinguish himself in battle and win a "war name" of his own.
He and Murray, however they might be regarded as members of the tribe and of that war-party, had no rights in the "Council." Only born Lipans could take part in that, except by special invitation.
It happened, on the present occasion, that they were both glad of it, for No Tongue had more than usual to say, and Yellow Head was very anxious to listen to him.
"That peak yonder would be an awful climb, Steve."
"I should say it would."
"But if you and I were up there, I'll tell you what we could do; we could look north and east into New Mexico, north and west into Arizona, and south every way, into Mexico itself."
"Are we so near the border?"
"I think we are."
Something like a thunder-cloud seemed to be gathering on Murray's face, and the deep furrows grew deeper, in great rigid lines and curves, while his steel-blue eyes lighted up with a fire that made them unpleasant to look upon.
"You lived in Mexico once?"
"Did I? Did I ever tell you that?"
"Not exactly. I only guessed it from things you've dropped."
"I'll tell you now, then. I did live in Mexico—down yonder in Chihuahua."
"She-waw-waw?" said Steve, trying to follow the old man's rapid pronunciation of the strange, musical name.
"Down there, more than a hundred miles south of the border. I thought we were safe. The mine was a good one. The hacienda was the prettiest place I could make of it. I thought I should never leave it. But the Apaches came one day—"
He stopped a moment and seemed to be looking at the tops of the western mountains.
"Did you have a fight with them?" asked Steve.
"Fight? No. I was on a hunt in the sierras that day. When I came home it was all gone."
"The Apaches?"
"The mine was there, but the works were all burnt. So was the hacienda and the huts of the peons and workmen. Everything that would burn."
"But the people!"
"Cattle, horses, all they could drive with them, they carried away. We won't say anything about the people, Steve. My wife was among them. She was a Spanish-Mexican lady. She owned the mine and the land. We buried her before we set out after the Apaches. I've been following them ever since."
"Were the rest all killed?"
"All. They did not even leave me my little girl. I hadn't anything left to keep me there."
"So you joined the Lipans?"
"They're always at war with the Apaches. I'm pretty near to being an Indian now."
"I won't be, then. I'll get away, somehow. I'm white, and I'm almost a man."
"Steve, have you forgotten anything you knew the day they took you prisoner?"
"No, I haven't. I was fifteen then, and if there's one thing I've been afraid of it was that I would forget. I've repeated things over and over and over, for fear they'd get away from me."
"That's all right. I've had an eye on you about that. But haven't you learned something?"
"You've taught me all about rocks and stones and ores and mining—"
"Yes, and you can ride like a Lipan, and shoot and hunt, and there isn't a young brave in the band that can throw you in a fair wrestle."
"That's all Indian—"
"Is it? Well, whether it is or not, you'll need it all before long. All you know."
"To fight Apaches?"
"Better'n that, Steve. It's been of no use for you to try to get away toward Texas. They watch you too closely, and besides, the Comanches are most of the time between us and the settlements. They won't watch you at all out here. That's why I insisted on bringing you along."
"Do you mean I'll have a chance to get away?"
"I don't mean you shall go back of the mountains again, Steve. You must wait patiently, but the time'll come. I tell you what, my boy, when you find yourself crossing the Arizona deserts and mountains all alone, you'll be right glad you can ride, and shoot, and hunt, and find your own way. It's all Indian knowledge, but it's wonderfully useful when you have to take care of yourself in an Indian country."
The dark cloud was very heavy on Murray's face yet, but an eager light was shining upon that of his young friend—the light of hope.
CHAPTER III
"Talking leaves?" said Ni-ha-be, as she turned over another page of the pamphlet in her lap and stared at the illustrations. "Can you hear what they say?"
"With my eyes."
"Then they are better than mine. I am an Apache! You was born white!"
There was a little bit of a flash in the black eyes of the Indian maiden. She had not the least idea but that it was the finest thing in all the world to be the daughter of Many Bears, the great Apache warrior, and it did not please her to find a mere white girl, only Indian by adoption, able to see or hear more than she could.
Rita did not reply for a moment, and a strange sort of paleness crept across her face, until Ni-ha-be exclaimed,
"It hurts you, Rita! It is bad medicine. Throw it away."
"No, it does not hurt—"
"It makes you sick?"
"No, not sick—it says too much. It will take many days to hear it all."
"Does it speak Apache?"
"No. Not a word."
"Nor the tongue of the Mexican pony men?"
"No. All it says is in the tongue of the blue-coated white men of the North."
"Ugh!"
Even Ni-ha-be's pretty face could express the hatred felt by her people for the only race of men they were at all afraid of.
There were many braves in her father's band who had learned to talk Mexican-Spanish. She herself could do so very well, but neither she nor any of her friends or relatives could speak more than a few words of broken English, and she had never heard Rita use one.
"There are many pictures."
"Ugh! yes. That's a mountain, like those up yonder. There are lodges, too, in the valley. But nobody ever made lodges in such a shape as that."
"Yes, or nobody could have painted a talking picture of them."
"It tells a lie, Rita! And nobody ever saw a bear like that."
"It isn't a bear, Ni-ha-be. The talking leaf says it's a lion."
"What's that? A white man's bear?"
Rita knew no more about lions than did her adopted sister, but by the time they had turned over a few more pages their curiosity was aroused to a high degree. Even Ni-ha-be wanted to hear all that the "talking leaves" might have to say in explanation of those wonderful pictures.
It was too bad of Rita to have been "born white" and not to be able to explain the work of her own people at sight.
"What shall we do with them, Ni-ha-be?"
"Show them to father."
"Why not ask Red Wolf?"
"He would take them away and burn them. He hates the pale-faces more and more every day."
"I don't believe he hates me."
"Of course not. You're an Apache now. Just as much as Mother Dolores, and she's forgotten that she was ever white."
"She isn't very white, Ni-ha-be. She's darker than almost any other woman in the tribe."
"We won't show her the talking leaves till father says we may keep them. Then she'll be afraid to touch them. She hates me."
"No, she doesn't. She likes me best, that's all."
"She'd better not hate me, Rita. I'll have her beaten if she isn't good to me. I'm an Apache!"
The black-eyed daughter of the great chief had plenty of self-will and temper. There could be no doubt of that. She sprang upon her mustang with a quick, impatient bound, and Rita followed, clinging to her prizes, wondering what would be the decision of Many Bears and his councillors as to the ownership of them.
A few minutes of swift riding brought the two girls to the border of the camp.
"Rita? Red Wolf!"
"I see him—he is coming to meet us, but he does not want us to think so."
That was a correct guess.
The tall, hawk-nosed young warrior, who was now riding toward them, was a perfect embodiment of Indian haughtiness, and even his sister was a mere "squaw" in his eyes. As for Rita, she was not only a squaw but also not even a full-blooded Apache, and was to be looked down upon accordingly.
He was an Indian and a warrior, and would one day be a chief like his father.
Still, he had so far unbent his usual cold dignity as to turn his horse to meet that sisterly pair, if only to find out why they were in such a hurry.
"What scare you?"
"We're not scared. We've found something—pale-face sign."
"Apache warriors do not ask squaws if there are pale-faces near them. The chiefs know all; their camp was by the spring."
"Was it?" exclaimed Ni-ha-be. "We have found some of their talking leaves. Rita must show them to father."
"Show them to me!"
"No. You are an Apache; you cannot hear what they say: Rita can—she is white."
"Ugh! Show leaves, now!"
Ni-ha-be was a "squaw," but she was also something of a spoiled child, and was less afraid of her brother than he may have imagined. Besides, the well-known rule of the camp, or of any Indian camp, was in her favor.
All "signs" were to be reported to the chief by the finder, and Ni-ha-be would make her report to her father like a warrior.
Rita was wise enough to say nothing, and Red Wolf was compelled to soften his tone a little. He even led the way to the spot near the spring where the squaws of Many Bears were already putting up his "lodge."
There was plenty of grass and water in that valley, and it had been decided to rest the horses there for three days, before pushing on deeper into the Apache country.
The proud old chief was not lowering his dignity to any such work as lodge-pitching. He would have slept on the bare ground without a blanket before he would have touched one pole with a finger.
That was "work for squaws," and all that could be expected of him was that he should stand near and say "Ugh!" pleasantly, when things were going to please him, and to say it in a different tone if they were not.
Ni-ha-be and Rita were favorites of the scarred and wrinkled warrior, however, and when they rode up with Red Wolf, and the latter briefly stated the facts of the case—all he knew of them—the face of Many Bears relaxed into a grim smile.
"Squaw find sign. Ugh! Good!"
"Rita says they are talking leaves. Much picture. Many words. See!"
Her father took from Ni-ha-be, and then from Rita, the strange objects they held out so excitedly, but to their surprise he did not seem to share in their estimate of them.
"No good. See them before. No tell anything true. Big lie."
Many Bears had been among the forts and border settlements of the white men in his day. He had talked with army officers and missionaries and government agents. He had seen many written papers and printed papers, and had had books given him, and there was no more to be told or taught him about nonsense of that kind. He had once imitated a pale-faced friend of his, and looked steadily at a newspaper for an hour at a time, and it had not spoken a word to him.
So now he turned over the three magazines in his hard, brown hand, with a look of dull curiosity mixed with a good deal of contempt.
"Ugh! Young squaws keep them. No good for warriors. Bad medicine. Ugh!"
Down they went upon the grass, and Rita was free to pick up her despised treasures and do with them as she would. As for Red Wolf, after such a decision by his terrible father, he would have deemed it beneath him to pay any farther attention to the "pale-face signs" brought into camp by two young squaws.
Another lodge of poles and skins had been pitched at the same time with that of Many Bears, and not a great distance from it. In fact, this also was his own property, although it was to cover the heads of only a part of his family.
In front of the loose "flap" opening, which served for the door of this lodge, stood a stout, middle-aged woman, who seemed to be waiting for Ni-ha-be and Rita to approach. She had witnessed their conference with Many Bears, and she knew by the merry laugh with which they gathered up their fallen prizes that all was well between them and their father. All the more for that, it may be, her mind was exercised as to what they had brought home with them which should have needed the chief's inspection.
"Rita!"
"What, Ni-ha-be?"
"Don't tell Mother Dolores a word. See if she can hear for herself."
"The leaves won't talk to her. She's Mexican white, not white from the North."
Nobody would have said to look at her, that the fat, surly-faced squaw of Many Bears was a white woman of any sort. Her eyes were as black and her long, jetty hair was as thick and coarse, and her skin was every shade as dark as were those of any Apache house-keeper among the scattered lodges of that hunting-party.
She was not the mother of Ni-ha-be. She had not a drop of Apache blood in her veins, although she was one of the half-dozen squaws of Many Bears. Mother Dolores was a pure "Mexican," and therefore as much of an Indian, really, as any Apache, or Lipan, or Comanche. Only a different kind of an Indian, that was all.
Her greeting to her two young charges, for such they were, was somewhat gruff and brief, and there was nothing very respectful in the manner of their reply. An elderly squaw, even though the wife of a chief, is never considered as anything better than a sort of servant, to be valued according to the kind and quantity of the work she can do. Dolores could do a great deal, and was therefore more than usually respectable; and she had quite enough force of will to preserve her authority over two such half-wild creatures as Ni-ha-be and Rita.
"You are late. Come in! Tell me what it is!"
Rita was as eager now as Ni-ha-be had been with her father and Red Wolf; but even while she was talking Dolores pulled them both into the lodge.
"Talking leaves!"
Not Many Bears himself could have treated those poor magazines with greater contempt than did the portly dame from Mexico. To be sure, it was many a long year since she had been taken a prisoner and brought across the Mexican border, and reading had not been among the things she had learned before coming.
"Rita can tell us all they say, by-and-by, Mother Dolores."
"Let her, then. Ugh!"
She turned page after page, in a doubtful way, as if it were quite possible one of them might bite her, but suddenly her whole manner changed.
"Ugh!"
"Rita," exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "the leaves have spoken to her."
She had certainly kissed one of them. Then she made a quick motion with one hand across her brow and breast.
"Give it to me, Rita! You must give it to me!"
Rita held out her hand for the book, and both the girls leaned forward with open mouths to learn what could have so disturbed the mind of Dolores.
It was a picture.
A sort of richly carved and ornamented door-way, but with no house behind it, and in it a lady with a baby in her arms, and over it a great cross of stone.
"Yes, Dolores," said Rita, "we will give you that leaf."
It was quickly cut out, and the two girls wondered more and more to see how the fingers of Dolores trembled as they closed upon that bit of paper.
She looked at the picture again with increasing earnestness. Her lips moved silently, as if trying to utter words her mind had lost.
