Swiftly he led the way up the creek.
An hour later, in the Indian’s cabin, Natachee stood before his white companion. With an expression which Hugh Edwards had never before seen on that dark countenance, the red man spoke in the manner of his people.
“Before the winter snows came, a white rabbit was caught by an Indian fox. The snows are gone and the rabbit has become a mountain lion. Why has the lion saved his enemy, the fox, from Sonora Jack’s fire?”
“Why,” stammered Hugh, “I—I—really, you know, I couldn’t do anything else. I saw the light, then I saw what those devils were going to do, and—well—I simply couldn’t stand for it.”
“I, Natachee the Indian, have no claim on you, a white man. I have been your enemy. I am an enemy to all of your blood. I have tortured you in every way I knew. I would have continued to torture you.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” retorted Hugh coldly. “I didn’t do what I did because I thought you were my friend.”
The Indian smiled with grave dignity.
“The live oak never drops its leaves like the cottonwood. The pine never blossoms like the palo verde. A coyote in the skin of a bear would still act like a coyote. A deer never forgets that it is not a wolf. You, Hugh Edwards, saved me, your enemy, from the coals of fire, because you could not forget your nature—because you could not forget that you are a white man. I, Natachee, will not forget that I am an Indian.”
With these words he bowed his head and, turning, went to take his bow and quiver of arrows from beside the fireplace.