"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´," he said, beckoning her to join him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then the Indian lifted her, carried her to a level place, and set her down. She was unable to bear her weight on the injured foot, and fell. She pointed to her ankle, then down towards Gila, hoping the Indian might make her plight known to the people in camp.
As if in answer to her pantomimic request, he lifted her easily in his arms, and strode swiftly down the canyon. Could it be that he had rescued her in order to return her to her friends? It seemed so.
At last it occurred to her to sing her call for help, to attract the attention of any miner, or charcoal tender who might chance to be going up or down the canyon. So with all the volume she could muster, she sang words, telling her plight.
Every little while the Apache would repeat the words:
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."
What could he mean?
About the time Esther was caring for the sick squaw, Kenneth Hastings learned from Wathemah that the teacher had gone to the Mexican's shack up the canyon. He was filled with alarm.
"What's that ye are sayin', Wathemah?" asked Pete Tompkins, who, passing along, had overheard the conversation.
"Me teacher up canyon. Mexican. Sick squaw," replied the child laconically.
"Are you sure, Wathemah?" questioned Kenneth.