It is a beautiful morning in Indian Summer, and White Doe is out in her birch bark canoe, engaged in a fishing expedition for food. She paddles home under the overhanging trees and vines, lights the small fire in front of her tepee and cooks her primitive breakfast. The air is bracing, the birds are singing, life is free and good. Also White Doe is happy for she had caught a gleam of admiration in the eyes of a stalwart cowboy, when she visited a ranch a few days before with her offering of plaited baskets and the famous blankets of her Navajo tribe. She begins her work of basket weaving, dreaming the love dreams of her people and her heart singing with coquetry and the happiness of conquest, for she is also loved by a brave of her tribe, a wealthy son of a chief with a hundred horses. Feminine vanity is the same in palace or on plain, and her love of admiration drives her to the side of the stream, where she gazes into the limpid water and ceases to wonder, in her satisfaction, that she is beloved of two strong men. The cowboy comes seeking her and finds her at the side of the stream, where they pass a happy hour. The Indian lover also seeks her this morning, but the tepee is empty and the fire is dying out. In the soft turf he finds the print of a pale-face’s boot and his heart grows heavy with hate, while the sign of the Great Spirit, set in the heavens for their guidance, seems to become clouded and grow farther away. In impatience he awaits White Doe’s coming, and when she rides up on the saddle of his rival, he draws his rifle to his shoulder. The girl springs between him and the equally eager cowboy, and. knowing that she cannot avert a battle, and feeling proud that two such great warriors should sue for her favor, she suggests that they fight it out with knives, her hand in marriage being the prize to the victor. They fight, a fierce battle of hate, now with the advantage to the white man and again to the Indian. Their struggles take them out of sight behind the tepee and White Doe awaits in anguish to see which will return to claim her. A groan, a thud and a silence tell her that the battle is over and the Indian emerges from the shadows and places her upon his horse. He takes her away to his wigwam, and at the summit of a hill she turns and looks back. All is quiet in the valley. Nothing moves save a riderless horse who noses uneasily the dead body of his master, lying cold and still by the side of the river, while a cardinal thread of his life’s blood trickles down to join the larger stream.