"Rot!" was the sharp interruption. "If I had been hurt as you have been, you would do just the same. Now lie quiet for a while. You'll feel better soon, and then you can go back to your people."
The Indian shook his head slowly.
"Red Fox understand. Red Fox know English tongue good. But—he no' go back to people. He go—Manito—Happy Hunting-ground—soon."
Alf was silent. He had never been in the presence of death, and never before in the presence of the dying. The thought awed him.
"Yes—white papoose good," the redskin went on falteringly. "He kind to hand—that would have cut face for revenge. Ugh! Red Fox bad Indian, but—he sorry—now. Can brave white boy forgive poor Indian?"
"Of course," returned Alf huskily. "You did not understand. English people speak words that they do not mean to hurt. It is I who should ask forgiveness for what I said about you. I, too, am sorry."
"Then—white and red are—brothers. They bury the hatchet and—my white brother will stay with Red Fox while he go Happy Hunting-ground?"
"Yes, yes," the boy assented readily. "I won't leave you. Don't you be afraid of that."
"It is well, for Red Fox would speak before he go. He would speak true words to the pale-face. He spoke forked words like serpent tongue when he say that white man sent Red Fox to bring papooses to Indian camp. But he speak well now when he say white men with Mighty Hand now——"
"Safe?" exclaimed Holden, as the information came to him with sudden joy and sudden dread.