Ambrose now for the first time received a visit from Watusk. Watusk had also traveled in the other dugout ascending the river, and they had exchanged no words.
He came to the shack attended by his four little familiars, and the door was closed behind them. These four were like supers in a theater. They had no lines to speak. Watusk's aspect was intended to be imposing.
In addition to the red sash he now wore three belts, the first full of cartridges, the second supporting an old cavalry saber, the third carrying two gigantic .45 Colts in holsters.
He carried the Winchester over his arm, and still wore the grimy pith helmet. Ambrose smiled with bitter amusement. It seemed like the very sport of fate that he should be placed in the power of such a poor creature as this.
"How!" said Watusk, offering his hand with an affable smile.
Ambrose, remembering the look of his face when it rose over the bank, was sharply taken aback. He lacked a clue to the course of reasoning pursued by Watusk's mongrel mind. However, he quickly reflected that it was only by exercising his wits that he could hope to help Nesis. He took the detestable hand and returned an offhand greeting.
"You mak' beeg mistak' you try run away," said Watusk. "You mos' safe here."
"How is that?" asked Ambrose warily.
"I your friend," said Watusk.
Ambrose suppressed the inclination to laugh.