Willock went into the cabin, and brought out the clay pipe. They smoked. Willock cast covert glances toward the girl. She stood slim and straight, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the horse whose halter she held. Her limbs were bare and a blanket that descended to her knees seemed her only garment. The face of the sleeping child of five was the same, however, as this of the seven-year-old maid, except that it had grown more beautiful; the wealth of glowing brown hair made amends for all poverty of attire.
Willock was wonderfully moved; so much so that his manner was harsh, his voice gruff in the extreme. "What are you going to do with that girl?" he demanded.
"You take her?" inquired the chief passively.
"Yes—I take her."
"Good!" The Indian smoked serenely.
"Where'd you find her?"
"Not been lost. Her safe all time. Sometime in one village—here, then there, two, three—move her about. Safe all time. I never forget. There she is. You take her?"
"I said so, didn't I? Where's her daddy?"
The Indian said nothing, only smoked, his eyes fixed on space.
Willock raised his voice. "Must I ask HER where he is?"