He had clearly read her thought, this dispossessed, illiterate Indian chieftain.

Yet, was he so illiterate?
Had he not read in books which so few have learned to read?
His life had been broken on the rock of civilization, but his simple soul had learned some elemental truths--not many, but the essential ones, without which there is no philosophy, no understanding.

He knew Fleda Druse was thinking of her father, wondering if he would understand, half-fearing, hardly hoping, dreading the moment when she must meet him face to face.

She knew she had been selfish, but would Gabriel Druse understand?
She raised her eyes in gratitude to the Blackfeet chief.
"I must go home," she said.
She turned to go, but as she did so, a man came swaggering down the street, broke through the crowd, and made towards her with an arm raised, a hand waving, and a leer on his face.

He was a thin, rather handsome, dissolute-looking fellow of middle height and about forty, in dandified dress.