“Don’t go for to try any sp’ilin’ o’ my game,” warned Cousin without looking at me.
“They’re scouts from a big band of Shawnees now making toward Tygart’s Valley,” I informed him. “Can’t we learn something from them?”
“I’m going to kill this one now. The squaw can go. Crabtree would snuff her out, but I ain’t reached the p’int where I can do that yet.”
“You coward!” cried the squaw in excellent English.
Cousin darted a puzzled glance at her. His victim seemed to be indifferent to his fate; nor did the woman offer to interfere.
“She’s a white woman!” I cried. For a sunbeam straggled through the growth and rested on the long hair and revealed it to be fine and brown and never to be mistaken for the coarse black locks of an Indian.
“White?” faltered Cousin, lowering his rifle. “Watch that devil, Morris!”
I dropped on a log with my rifle across my knees. Cousin strode to the woman and caught her by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. For a long minute the two stared.
“Shelby?”
The words dropped from her lips in a sibilous crescendo as her blood drove her to a display of emotion.