He faced Polly in silence, a stately, splendid young creature in blanket and loin cloth, painted as to face and body, but not for war. His was the regalia of a bridegroom. The girl sat by the cradle in an attitude of complete submission, hands folded, head bowed.
Meanwhile Granny battled desperately with the Indians who held her, grinning. They bound her hands behind her, forced her down upon a stool, tying her feet to its legs, but never hurting her.
She did not cease for a moment her maledictions. “You vile devils! You thieves, you murderers! Wait til’ my grandson catches you! Steal what you can find—there’s food, gear, money—but let you lay so much as a finger on that girl or her child, and he’ll get you if he has to go to hell for you. Ezra!” she screamed suddenly. “Help! Help! Take your dirty hand out of my mouth, you fiend! You’ll not stop me yelling until you kill me. Ezra-ah-h!”
They gagged her with her own knitting, but still she strained at her thongs, spluttering, glaring, cursing them with her fierce eyes. The Indians laughed among themselves. One said: “Old Long-knife squaw heap big fighting brave—ugh!”
They began to run about rapidly, picking up everything in sight, always with a cautious eye on Gray Eagle, however. One tied an apron around his waist, so that it hung down behind; one spied the moccasins Polly had sewed for Ezra, and appropriated them with a grunt of satisfaction; another seized the bread knife, and made a pass with it at the old woman, who did not wince.
The chieftain spoke at last, gravely:
“The Moon-maid has waited for me?”
“Ah, too long,” whispered Polly.
He smiled. “That is well. The Eagle bides his time. He has no desire to strike, only to take in peace what is his. Come, then.”
He turned to the door, and the girl followed. Granny strained forward, glaring terribly, struggling to be heard; but the girl did not look at her. Then from the cradle came a faint, thin wail.