“See yer, Hammond, as I b’leve you call yourself, thar seems to be something in this gal that in’trests you. Ain’t that so now?”
“Well, I see no objection to confessing that there is.”
“Who is she?”
“I can not say. You are right in supposing that she is a white girl. She is of our own race and blood, and is a prisoner, although a not very unwilling one, among a small tribe of Indians near at hand.”
Black Tom was somewhat pleased with Hammond; he had that admiration for a learned man which the ignorant invariably feel, and he saw from the manner of his speaking that he was a “scholar.” Besides that he possessed a blandness of manner that predisposed all in his favor—but, at the same time, he was not prepared as yet to invite him to make one of their party.
There was a mystery, which the trapper was desirous to penetrate, and with characteristic bluntness he put his questions point-blank.
“What brings yer in this part of the country?”
Hammond looked at him rather quizzically; the movement of his whiskers showed that he was smiling.
“It is not the object that brings you and your companions here.”
“What do you know ’bout that?”