"Ah, ah."
"Natsatt is my name."
"I like it," was the shy reply. "It is different from any I ever heard."
Klitonda in the meantime had finished his work, and had taken his place near where the white man was sitting. His face brightened as he listened to the conversation, for it always pleased him to see Owindia happy. Something about the stranger attracted him. He liked his face; it was candid and open. Klitonda was a good judge of character. He could read men like an open book, and had a name for each. He could detect the wolf, bear, or fox nature in a short time.
"I want to thank you for your kindness to me," and Natsatt turned toward the chief as he spoke. "But for you I should have perished out there in the storm."
"The white man is welcome to Klitonda's lodge," was the quiet reply. "Klitonda's heart is always warm to the great race beyond the mountains of the rising sun."
"You have traded with them, then?" Natsatt somewhat anxiously queried. "They have been here buying your skins?"
"Klitonda's wife was born there. Klota's father was a white man."
"Oh, I see," and a surprised look came into Natsatt's eyes. Then he looked at Owindia and light began to dawn upon his mind. Here was the reason why she was so different from other Indian women he had met. There was white blood in her veins.
"And your wife is dead?" he questioned.