III
It was a few moments later that Josephine Stone, while walking down to the shore of the little lake, was suddenly confronted by Ogima Bush.
He bowed low, holding in an extended hand a folded note.
Wonderingly, the girl accepted the missive which was addressed to her in a firm spencerian hand. When she had opened it she read with amazement greater still:—
Dear Miss Stone:—This is principally to set at rest any fears on your part as to your personal safety. No harm can reach you where you are, and at most you will not be asked to remain there for more than a few days.
Believe me, it was not part of my plan that you should have had to go through the disagreeable experience that befell you this morning, which, for reasons I hope to be able to explain later, I was unable to prevent without endangering your interests. Circumstances promoted by others over whom I had no control did that.
If there is any detail for your comfort or convenience which may have been overlooked, please advise me. The bearer of this note, Mr. Ogima Bush, is absolutely trustworthy so far as the affairs of my friends are concerned. Mr. Bush will therefore safely convey any message you may have for me before I leave this afternoon for the east. Yours to command,
Acey Smith.
“You wait here.” Josephine Stone addressed the Indian, who stood with eyes averted to the gravel walk.
“Un-n-n-n ugh,” he gutturalled. “Ogima wait.”
She hurried back to the château and returned with a pencil and some sheets of paper. Seating herself on a little rustic bench, she three times started a reply to Acey Smith’s note, but each time failed to find words coldly expressive of her contempt for the man who could knowingly allow her to suffer the indignities she had met with that morning.
Finally she tore all the sheets into little shreds and flung them angrily to the ground. Into the sinister face of the Indian there came a look of actual apprehension as she arose from the bench.
“Tell Mr. Smith I have no answer for him!”
The Medicine Man pointed to the torn bits of paper on the walk. “Maybe Ogima tell Big Boss white lady make words many times and throw away.”
Miss Stone’s eyes were blazing as she stamped her little foot on the gravel. “You tell him what I told you to tell him—nothing more!”
The Medicine Man quailed before the white wrath of the girl, a ridiculous, crestfallen creature for the moment in his savage trappings. “Un-n-n-n, Ogima tell him what white lady say—no more,” he answered supinely with a hand above his head as though to ward off an expected blow. “Big Boss maybe get heap mad; tell poor Ogima he lie.”
“I hope he beats you within an inch of your life!”
The Indian drew himself up to his full height at that.
“No hit Ogima Bush,” he declared pompously. “Mister Smid Big Boss of camp; no boss of Ogima. Un-n-n-n, Smid no boss Ogima!”
“Well!” There was a wealth of biting sarcasm in the girl’s tones. “Then who is Ogima’s boss, pray?”
“Ogima’s boss same boss as Big Boss—same boss as Mister Smid.” The Indian was looking straight down into her eyes. His wicked black optics softened in a flash that transformed him, transfixed her with its intensity.
He placed his right hand over his left breast as he said it in tones scarcely above a sibilant whisper: “Ogima’s boss is J.C.X.”
With another low bow, the Medicine Man whirled on a shoe-packed heel and strode swiftly away up the walk in the direction of the water-locked gate of the Cup of Nannabijou.
A few minutes later the girl heard the gong in the cliffs announce his departure.