When the Falling Leaf Moon of November
comes, I shall still be there, living the ways of white men." She held
out her hand. "Aw-lip-ka-shaw!" she said shyly, her black eyes very
soft and sorrowful. "It is a prettier parting than the white man's.
By and by, Diane, you will write to the lodge of Mic-co? The Indian
lads ride in each moon to the village for Mic-co's books and papers."
Her great eyes searched Diane's face a little wistfully. "Sometime,"
she added shyly, "when you wish, I will come again. You will not ride
away soon to the far cities of the North?"
"No!" said Diane. "No indeed! Not for ever so long. I'm tired.
Likely I'll hunt a quiet spot where there's a lake and trees and
lilies, and camp and rest. You won't forget me, Keela?"
Keela had a wordless gift of eloquence. Her eyes promised.
Diane smiled and tightened her hold of the slim, brown Indian hand.
"Aw-lip-ka-shaw, Keela!" she said. "Some day I'm coming back and take
you home with me."
The Indian girl drove reluctantly away; presently her canvas wagon was
but a dim gray silhouette upon the horizon.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE RIVAL CAMPERS
Northward by lazy canal and shadowy hummock, northward by a river
freckled with sand bars, Diane came in time to a quiet lake where
purple martins winged ceaselessly over a tangled float of lilies--where
now and then an otter swam and dipped with a noiseless ripple of
water--where ground doves fluttered fearlessly about the camp as Johnny
pitched the tents at noonday.
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