He had thrown only light stuff on the fire, and he let it burn itself out, having no mind to make of himself a shining mark for a bullet from another quarter. He lit his pipe and sat debating what to do—or rather struggling with his desire to set off instantly in search of Imbrie’s camp. Knowing it must be near, it was hard to be still. Yet better sense told him he would be at a fatal disadvantage in the dark, particularly as Imbrie must now be on the alert. There was no help for it. He must wait for daylight.
He knew that above all he required sleep to fit him for his work next day, and he determined to impose sleep on himself if will-power could do it. As he rose to return to his tent a sullen voice from the direction of the willow-bushes spoke up in English as good as his own:
“The mosquitoes are biting me.”
“Ha!” said Stonor, with a grim laugh. “You’ve found your tongue, eh? Mosquitoes! That’s not a patch on what you intended for me, my girl! But if you want to be friends, all right. First give an account of yourself.”
She relapsed into silence.
“I say, tell me who you are and where you came from.”
She said, with exactly the manner of a wilful child: “You can’t make me talk.”
“Oh, all right! But I can let the mosquitoes bite you.”
Nevertheless he untied her from the willows and let her crawl under his mosquito-bar. Here he tied ankles as well as wrists, beyond any possibility of escape. It was not pure philanthropy on his part, for he reflected that when she failed to return, Imbrie might come in search of her, and take a shot inside his tent just on a chance. For himself he took his blanket under the darkest shadow of the willows and covered himself entirely with it excepting a hole to breathe through.
He did succeed in sleeping, and when he awoke the sky was clear and the stars paling. Before crawling out of his hiding-place he took a careful survey from between the branches. Nothing stirred outside. Under his tent his prisoner was sleeping as calmly as a child. Apparently a frustrated murder more or less was nothing to disturb her peace of mind. Stonor thought grimly—for perhaps the hundredth time in dealing with the red race: “What a rum lot they are!” He ate some bread that he had left, and began to pack up.