“I just saw them bury Saunders,” Good Indian remarked, by way of opening a conversation. “You believe he shot himself?”
Peppajee took his little stone pipe from his lips, blew a thin wreath of smoke, and replaced the stem between his teeth, stared stolidly straight ahead of him, and said nothing.
“All the white men say that,” Good Indian persisted, after he had waited a minute. Peppajee did not seem to hear.
“Sheriff say that, too. Sheriff found the gun.”
“Mebbyso sheriff mans heap damfool. Mebbyso heap smart. No sabe.”
Good Indian studied him silently. Reticence was not a general characteristic of Peppajee; it seemed to indicate a thorough understanding of the whole affair. He wondered if Rachel had told her uncle the truth.
“Where's Rachel?” he asked suddenly, the words following involuntarily his thought.
Peppajee sucked hard upon his pipe, took it away from his mouth, and knocked out the ashes upon a pole of the wikiup frame.
“Yo' no speakum Rachel no more,” he said gravely. “Yo' ketchum 'Vadnah; no ketchum otha squaw. Bad medicine come. Heap much troubles come. Me no likeum. My heart heap bad.”
“I'm Rachel's friend, Peppajee.” Good Indian spoke softly so that others might not hear. “I sabe what Rachel do. Rachel good girl. I don't want to bring trouble. I want to help.”