THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX
mesa. "Wagalexa Conka—cola!" she whispered, for "cola" is the Sioux word for friend. Aloud she dared not speak the word, lest some tricksy breeze carry it to him and fill him with anger because she had betrayed his friendship. "Wagalexa Conka—cola! cola!"
Friendship that was dead—but she yearned for it the more. And it seemed to her as she whispered, that Wagalexa Conka was very, very near. Her heart felt his nearness, and her eyes softened. The Indian look—the look of her fighting forefathers—drifted slowly from her face as fog drifts away before the sun. He was near—perhaps he was dead and his spirit had come to take her spirit by the hand and call her cola—friend. If that were so, then she wished that her spirit might go with his spirit, up through all that limitless blue, away and away and away, and never stop, and never tire and never feel anything but friendship like warm, bright sunshine!
Down at the cabin a sound—a cry, a shout—startled her. She brushed her hand across her eyes and looked down. There, surrounding the cabin, were the Happy Family, and old Applehead
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