“Old Ruff tell big lie! Pappoose in lodge—Maquesa close by—he come back, no find pappoose; get mad—burn down his lodge, and den go ’way. One, two, t’ree, good many moons, and he neber see her—t’ink she dead; den he hear Old Hunter hab Little Rifle—Maquesa t’ink him de squaw pappoose, and he come ober mountain arter her—she go ’way wid him—Old Hunter try catch ’em, but he paddle too slow—can’t find Little Rifle—and neber see her again!”
It would be impossible to describe the intensity of interest with which Harry Northend listened to these broken utterances of the chief, and the closing declaration that Little Rifle would never be seen again brought him to his feet in the greatest excitement.
“Why do you say that Little Rifle will never be seen again? What have you done with her? Is she dead? What has become of her?”
Maquesa and the other Indians looked quietly at the excited lad, as if rather amused than otherwise at his flurry; but the chief showed no disposition to be as explicit in his replies as Harry himself had been. It was not until the question had been repeated that he answered:
“Little Rifle gone—Old Hunter and white pappoose neber see her ’gin!”
Had Harry Northend been certain that Maquesa had been the cause of the girl’s death, he would have sprung upon him as the mottled bear sprung upon the savage beast; but, by this time, he had managed to think a little, and his own common sense taught him that it was extremely improbable that the Blackfoot had done her any personal harm. Her history, as revealed by the slip of paper, pointed to a different conclusion altogether.
It was useless to attempt to question Maquesa, when he was not disposed to reply; but Harry took a different course, in the hope of reaching the truth in another way.
“Do you hunt for Big Hunter?”
The wily Blackfoot was fully authorized to grin, as he did, when he said:
“When Maquesa look for Big Hunter, Maquesa can find him!”