“I thought you knew him. You call him Robinette, the trader.”
“Whew! The old fellow is dead, then,” said Wilder, musingly. “He was a strange man, shrewd, daring, but rather unscrupulous, as I have heard. Did your braves capture his train?”
“No. They came across his party, and stampeded the horses. As they had surprised the camp, they thought they might do more; but the white men beat them off at last. The men who came to-night were his men. They wanted to get back some of their horses, or to look for the white girl.”
“What white girl?”
“The daughter of the white-haired chief.”
“Is she here?”
“She is in the village. Has not my brother seen her?”
“No. I know nothing of her.”
“You will not be likely to see her for a while, as Good Ax, the head chief, means to take her into his lodge, and she has been shut up from the village.”
Wilder mused a little, and his musings were in this wise: