Willock rose and explained that they must cross the mountain. As
they traversed it, he reminded her that she had not gathered any of
the flowers that were scattered under sheltering boulders.

"Why?" asked Lahoma, showing that her neglect to do so was
intentional.

"Well, honey, don't you love and honor that mother that bore so much
pain and trouble for you, traveling with you in her arms to the
Oklahoma country, trying to make a home for you up there in the
wilderness, and at last dying from the hardships of the plains.
Ain't she worth a few flowers."

"She dead. She not see flowers, not smell flowers, not know."

Willock said nothing, but the next time they came to a clump of
blossoms he made a nosegay. Lahoma watched him with a face as calm
and unemotional as that of Red Feather, himself. She held her back
with the erect grace and moved her limbs with the swift ease of
those among whom she had passed the last two years. In delightful
harmony with this air of wildness was the rich and delicate beauty
of her sun-browned face, and the golden glow of her silken brown
hair. Willock's heart yearned toward her as only the heart of one
destined to profound loneliness can yearn toward the exquisite grace
and unconscious charm of a child; but to the degree that he felt
this attraction, he held himself firmly aloof, knowing that wild
animals are frightened when kindness beams without its veil.

"What you do with that?" She pointed at the flowers in his rough
hand.