Imbrie said with a sneering laugh: “He’s telling me that I have only to say the word, and you’ll never take me.”
“Rubbish!” said Stonor coolly. “Men do not oppose the police.”
They could not understand the words, but the tone intimidated them. Their eyes bolted as he looked sternly from man to man. He saw that look of angry pain come into their eyes that he knew in their race. It was not that they did not wish to defy him, but they dared not, and they knew they dared not.
“Oh, I’m helping you out, old man,” said Imbrie, with airy impudence. “I’m telling them I don’t mind going with you, because you’ve got nothing in the world against me. I’m going to give them some good advice now. Listen.”
He did indeed address Myengeen earnestly at some length. Stonor could not guess what he was saying, for he used no gestures. He saw that it was true Imbrie was unpractised in their tongue, for he spoke with difficulty, hesitating for words, and they had to pay close attention to get his meaning. Myengeen listened with a face as inscrutable as Imbrie’s own. At the end he nodded with an expression of approval, and bent a queer look on Stonor that the trooper was unable to fathom.
Imbrie then tied his bed behind his saddle and swung himself on the horse. Stonor signed to him to start first, and they trotted out from among the tepees. Stonor sat stiffly with the butt of his gun on his thigh, and disdained to look around. The instant they got in motion a wailing sound swept from tepee to tepee. Stonor wondered greatly at the hold this fellow had obtained over the simple people; even the Kakisas, it seemed to him, should have been able to see that he was no good.
They trotted smartly over the first ridge and out of sight. A long, grassy bottom followed. When they had put what Stonor considered a safe distance between them and the village, he called a halt. Picketing the horses, and building a fire, he set about preparing their simple meal. Imbrie seemed willing enough to do his share of unpacking, fetching wood and water, etc.; indeed in his cynical way he was almost good-natured.
As they sat over their meal he said tauntingly: “Why are you afraid to tell me what the charge is against me?”
Stonor had no intention of letting out what he knew. He figured that Imbrie’s mind was probably perfectly at ease regarding the murder—always supposing there had been a murder—because he could not possibly guess that the body had not been carried over the falls. He retorted: “If your conscience is easy, what do you care what charge is made?”
“Naturally I want to know why I’m obliged to upset all my plans to make this journey.”