He shook his head. “They have not ill-treated you.”
“I wouldn’t mind if they did. It is terrible to see you work so hard, while I do nothing. Why do you work so hard for them?”
“I have hope of meeting help up the river.”
She smiled incredulously. Stonor, seeing her resigned to the worst, said no more about his hopes. After all they might fail, and it would be better not to raise her hopes only to dash them.
“Better go,” he urged. “Every little while through the night one or the other of these breeds wakes, sits up, looks around, and goes back to sleep again.”
“Are you glad I came, Martin?”
“Very glad. Go back to your tent, and we’ll talk in fancy until we fall asleep again.”
Stonor was awakened the next time by a loud, jeering laugh. It was full daylight. The breed woman was standing at his feet, pointing mockingly to the tell-tale print of Clare’s little body in the sand beside him. A blinding rage filled Stonor at the implication of that coarse laugh—but he was helpless. Imbrie started up, and Stonor attempted to roll over on the depression—but Imbrie saw it, saw also the little tracks leading around behind the sleepers to Clare’s tent.
No sound escaped from Imbrie, but his smooth face turned hideous with rage; the lips everted over the clenched teeth, the ruddy skin livid and blotchy. He quickly untied the bond between him and Stonor. The woman, with a wicked smile, drew the knife out of her moccasin, and offered it to him. He eagerly snatched it up. Stonor’s eyes were fixed unflinchingly on his face. He thought: “It has come!”
But at that moment Clare came out of her tent. Imbrie hid the knife and turned away. As he passed the breed woman Stonor heard him mutter: