Stonor scarcely heard the last words. His world was tumbling around his ears. But Etzooah’s and Mary’s sly, scared glances in his face brought him to himself. “Anything more?” he asked harshly.
Etzooah hastened on: “Eembrie moch in a hurry. Not want spell. Say he come away so quick got no grub but duck him shoot. I got not’ing but little rabbit, but I say, come to my camp, got plenty dry meat, dry fish. So we paddle up river till the sun is near gone under. Eembrie not talk much. Eembrie not want come to my camp. Not want my wife, my brot’er, my children see him. My camp little way from river. Eembrie wait beside the river. I go bring him dry meat, dry fish, matches and a hatchet. Eembrie go up river. That is all.”
The story had a convincing ring. So far as it went Stonor could scarcely doubt it, though there was much else that needed to be explained. It pricked the bubble of his brief happiness. How was he going to tell Clare? He had much ado to keep his face under the Indians’ curious glances. They naturally were ascribing their terrors to him. This idea caused him to smile grimly.
“What kind of a gun did Imbrie have?” he asked.
Etzooah replied through Mary that he had not seen Imbrie’s gun, that it was probably covered by his blankets.
Stonor seemed to be pondering deeply on what he had heard. As a matter of fact, conscious only of the hurt he had received, he was incapable of consecutive thought. The damnable question reiterated itself. “How am I going to tell Clare?” Even now she was waiting with her eyes upon him for some word. He dared not look at her.
He was roused by hearing Etzooah and Mary talking together in scared voices.
“What does Etzooah say?” he demanded.
Mary faltered: “He say Eembrie got ver’ strong medicine. Him not stay dead.”
“That is nonsense. You saw the body. Could a man without a face come to life?”