"No."
"He is telling what is not true," interrupted Olive, "for he killed—"
"Let the pale squaw come again between the Raven and her lover and I will tear out her tongue!" and the knife of the squaw flashed so near her face that Olive shrunk back, covered her face with her hands and remained silent.
But when the squaw had gathered branches and made a shelter for Parsons and one at some distance for the white girl—when she had built a fire, cooked a little venison she had brought with her—had fed both—had steeped some roots and herbs and given the renegade to drink, she came and sat by her female companion with her drawn knife in her hand. Then once more Olive ventured to speak and ask:
"Will you not tell me what is to be done with me?"
"I will kill you as I would the rattlesnake that tried to bite me if you attempt to escape!" was the stern answer.
Another silence of an hour passed. Then the Little Raven arose and noiselessly sought the side of her pretended lover. She bent down so that her face almost touched his and listened long and earnestly, and having satisfied herself that his slumber was no counterfeit one, she returned to Olive, laid down beside her, and whispered:
"Now the pale squaw may talk. The ears of the chief are like those of the deaf adder. Little Raven is her friend. Let her tell all that has happened since she left the wigwams of the red-men."
"I thought you loved that man," replied Olive.
"I hate him, but he must not know it. Let the pale squaw open her heart, and it will be well for her," and she drew her companion to her and left a reassuring kiss upon her lips.