“I am glad to see you, sir,” Angie said, with a gracious bow and smile, “and you are welcome here.”
“I thank the white lady–I not forget,” came the Indian’s dignified answer with a stately bow.
Not a word of greeting for Chip or of surprise at finding her here–only the eagle glance, accustomed to bright sunlight or to following the flight of a bird far out of white man’s vision.
“We shall have supper soon,” Angie added, uncertain what to say to this impassive man, “and some for you.”
It was a deft speech, for Angie, accustomed to take in every detail of a man from the condition of his nails to the cut of his clothing, as all women will, had ere now absorbed the appearance of this swarthy redskin, and was not quite sure whether to invite him to share their table or say nothing.
But the Indian solved his own problem, for spying the outdoor fire to which Old Cy now retreated, he bowed again and strode away toward it.
“Me cook here?” he said to Old Cy. With an “Of course, an’ you’re welcome to,” the question was settled.
Chip soon drew near, and now for the first time the Indian’s speech seemed to return, and while Old Cy busied himself about the cooking, these two began to visit.
Chip, as might be expected, did most of the talking, asked questions as to Tim’s Place, when he was there, and what they said about her running away, in rapid succession. Her own adventures and how she came here soon followed, and it was not long before he knew all that was to be known about her.
His replies were blunt and brief, after the manner of such. Now and then an expressive nod or grunt filled in the place of an ordinary answer. He knew but little about the recent happenings at Tim’s Place, as he had stayed there only one night since Chip departed with her father–as he was told. He had been away in the woods, looking for places to set traps later, and had no idea Chip was here.