"If she's a witch she don't need no telling," replied another, at which they all laughed.
"A witch?" said one. "I sure thought witches were all burned up!"
The old squaw was examining the fallen man, who began to show signs of consciousness. She bristled like a dog at the cowboy's remark.
"I see beyond! I know the future, the past, everything!" she cried impressively. "I read your thoughts! Say what you like, you dogs, but not one o' you would like me to tell what I read in your lives. I know! I know! I know everything!" Her voice reached a high, weird cry. Her blanket had slipped down, leaving her hair in wisps about her mummified face. To all appearances she might have been a genuine witch as she groveled over Long Bill.
"Ask her how she tells fortunes—cards or tea-leaves," said one.
"Or by the palm of your hand or the stars above," suggested another.
"Wonder where she keeps her broomstick," mused a third.
Just then McCullen came out of the cook-tent and faced the spectacle.
"I see he's found a nurse," he remarked, and walked over to his horse.
The old woman stood and gesticulated wildly, throwing mad, incoherent words at him. Finally her jargon changed into fair English.