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Page 21 text:
“
Che Sacrifice of Clichita reiig .
”
Page 22 text:
“
what am I babbling to my child. It grows late and soon the warriors will depart to lay their offering at the prophet’s door. There is much to be done yet and I must help.” So saying she left the tent and Wichita alone with her thoughts. One persistent thought kept mind. Was it unfair that Galpaxi must part with his most beloved toy while she could with a clear conscience retain hers? Indeed shouldn’t the squaws make some offering for the success of their warriors? Watoma had said women of other nations were brave, why shouldn't the women of hers be brave also? So she thought on and on, and always she turned her fingers in and out the string of beads with a lov- ‘ng, caressing movement. running through Wichita’s Finally Watoma, Galpaxi and the chief returned and all be- came silent in the wigwam. Wichita knew the men had made their offerings; she also knew that Galpaxi had laid his treas- ured bow on the altars of his fathers. Presently all slept in the little wigwam but Wichita. She tossed restlessly and her tired eyes refused to close. Finally she arose and stealing softly from the wigwam, she stoox outside in the white moonlight. Then she walked onward with soft stealthy steps toward the dark forest beyond. She dic not notice which way she turned, but walked rapidly on anc on. Suddenly with a gasp she stopped. hut of the prophet before it. ments and—yes, there on top lay the swift bow of Galpaxi, her brother. She caught her breath, a vague apprehension of Right before stood the Eagerly she gazed at the objects pile Ot many varieties were they :—bows, skins, orna- the supernatural stealing over her. Why had she been led thither? She had not come voluntarily, for engrossed in her thoughts, she had not noticed which path she had followed. It all seemed to point to one thing—she must sacrifice her 20 beads. And so she stood clasping the beloved necklace in her brown hands, gazing at the offerings of her tribe. Meanwhile Watoma had awakened at the departure of her daughter and had followed her at a short distance into the forest. What could be in the child’s brain to cause her to leave the shelter of the warm hut? What, too, had prompted the strange question? Was the blood of her white ancestors stir- ring in her veins, calling her away to the civilization of the white man which the woman half-loved, half-hated? Watoma followed until Wichita stopped. Then she hid herself behind a tree near by and watched the struggle going on in the heart of the child with the blood of two continents running in her veins. Would the Indian blood and her surroundings triumph or would the vague call of a conscience and self-sacrifice of the other nation prevail? For some time Wichita stood still and gazed upon the offer- ing. Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she unwound the beads from about her neck. Never had she looked so much For a brief moment she hesitated, then stepping forward she wound them about the bow of Galpaxi. Then turning swiftly, with a low half-smothered sob, she sped from the spot and from the forest. In the morning the warriors departed early. As they stalked stealthily through the forest, Galpaxi left his father for a mo- ment to run to the prophet’s hut for a last fond look at the bow. As he gazed, he became astonished. What was that wound about his precious bow? Approaching nearer, he looked down upon a little string of shells. Then softly retreating, he sped away, for he had seen and understood, Early in the morning, Watoma had called Wichita and to- gether they had set out for the hills. Watoma silent and un- communicative, Wichita wondering. When they reached a wooded space on a hillside, Watoma stopped beneath a gnarled old oak and sat down on the soft a princess.
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