Qui-tha nodded.
"You knew that, yet you brought him a bottle of whiskey and got drunk with him and shot him in the leg when you fought."
The old chief turned inquiringly toward Qui-tha. Again Qui-tha nodded grimly.
"And you knew that the infernal drunken row you kicked up that night frightened the little girl so that she ran away into the desert where a rattle snake bit her and she died—died all alone at night, in the desert."
A look of complete horror rose in Qui-tha's eyes. "No!" he gasped.
"Ai! Ai! Ai!" cried the squaw who had given Felicia the pottery. "Poor little papoose! She was sweet, like her," pointing to Charley.
Then there was silence in the camp, all eyes turned on the old chief. Indians are great lovers of children. Their tenderness to them never fails, be they white or red or black.
"Dick heap sick?" asked old Rabbit Tail, finally.
"Yes, but he'll get well. He's at Doc Evans's house in Archer's."
"Did you tell the sheriff?" continued the chief.