“But as soon as we came here we saw women, squaws, at work. They were getting breakfast, broiling meat upon coals and baking little cakes of meal. They, too, looked at me as if I were—they didn’t know what! Their clothes are more like Marta’s and Anita’s than mine are. Much prettier things than the old blue ones Mrs. Burnham gave me.”
“Did they give ye a bit o’ their breakfast, Miss Carlota?”
“Afterward. Plenty of it and it was nice. But, don’t interrupt, please, or I’ll never get through. As soon as the man who brought us had spoken to them in their own language—which they didn’t know that I knew, too, a little—they came and took my hands. They smiled at me and yet I thought they looked sorry. One of them touched my tunic and said something which means ‘pretty.’ So, I told her all about it. Then they led me up to one of these queer roofs and down into the house. It is very cosy and comfortable. There is a sort of fireplace, though I think they do their cooking out of doors when it’s as pleasant as now. One of them washed my face, just as if I’d been a baby, or Teddy; and they brushed my hair with a curious comb that pulled it dreadfully.”
“Bad cess to the meddlesome creatur’s!”
“Oh! no. It was all in kindness; and just as I was hoping for my breakfast, there were you, outside the walls, making such trouble for us both! Dennis, why did you run at the men with your knife?”
“Arrah musha! ’Twas themselves came runnin’ to me, first hand; yellin’ like wildcats, as they be!”
“Nonsense. That was the song, the hymn, as I told you. It wasn’t music I liked very well, though it sounded a good deal like the way you sing, Dennis, dear,” she commented, frankly. “They saw you carrying the saddles and things and, from the man who brought us, they’d heard about the centipede. They meant to bid you only a decent welcome, yet you rushed at them as if you would murder them. You would, too, if one of them hadn’t caught your arm just in time. He hurried to stop you and snatched away your dirk, but that threw you to the ground and your head struck a stone. The women said that your arm was doubled under you and they thought you were killed.”
“Hmm. I know; I know. Bad cess to me for an ill-thriven idjut!”
“No. I understand. You thought, as the Captain did, that there could be but one kind of Indian. Yet you should have known better, after that good one saved your life from the centipede. That’s all. Your arm has been fixed and you’ve been fed; and as soon as they have had that—that ‘trial’—of Carlos, we’ll go on again and try to find the Burnhams. I wish they’d hurry it up!”
“Wisha, for what are they ‘tryin’’ him?”