It was the old Indian, Paul Sam. There was a rifle under his arm, and around his middle was a belt from which in a beaded scabbard hung a long, broad-bladed knife. He was hatless, and his long, gray hair hung in two braids in front of his shoulders.
"All right," he said. "You not be scared. Where him Angus?"
"He isn't here."
The old Indian's eyes roved around the room, resting on the signs of disorder. "Iktah mamook?" he queried.
"I don't understand."
"What you mamook? What you do?" He threw up his head, his nostrils twitching like a dog's. "Smell um smoke," he said. "Somebody shoot. You see um Blake French?"
"He was here, but he has gone," Faith told him.
The old Indian's dark eyes peered at her, noting her agitation. "Me ol' man," he said. "Angus, him my tillikum. You him klootchman, him wife, all same my tillikum. Goo'-by."
Faith, left alone, knew she could not sleep. She dreaded the darkness, the lying waiting for slumber which would not come. She decided to stay before the fire till daylight. Then she would go to the Mackay ranch.
The wind had ceased, and in the comparative stillness she heard a low, distant drumming which she recognized as the sound of horses' hoofs. They approached, halted, and she started up in apprehension. What would happen next? Was everybody abroad that night? Footsteps tramped on the veranda; somebody knocked.