It had not availed,
however, and once again she had ridden out in a blizzard to die, but had
come upon a man lost in the snow, and her own misery had passed from her,
and her heart, full of the blood of plainsmen, had done for another what
it would not do for itself. The Indian in her had, with strange, sure
instinct, found its way to Portage la Drome, the man with both hands and
one foot frozen, on her pony, she walking at his side, only conscious
that she had saved one, not two, lives that day.
Here was another such day, here again was the storm in her heart which
had driven her into the plains that other time, and here again was that
tempest of white death outside.
"You have no sense. You are not white. They will not have you. Sit
down--"
The words had fallen on her ears with a cold, deadly smother. There came
a chill upon her which stilled the wild pulses in her, which suddenly
robbed the eyes of their brightness and gave a drawn look to the face.
"You are not white. They will not have you, Pauline." The Indian mother
repeated the words after a moment, her eyes grown still more gloomy; for
in her, too, there was a dark tide of passion moving.
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