With a yell of rage, Brent broke cover and dashed straight across the clearing. As the cry reached him, Claw looked up, fired one hasty shot at the approaching figure, and leaping straight through the throng of Indians, disappeared in the scrub beyond the cabin, with Yondo close at his heels.
Brent was aware that Snowdrift was at his side. "Go to her," panted the girl, "I will try to handle the Indians." For an instant he hesitated, then, realizing that the girl could deal with her own band better without his presence, he hastened to the squaw who had raised herself to an elbow and was vainly
trying to rise. Picking her up bodily, Brent carried her into the cabin and placed her upon the bunk.
"Where—is—she?" the woman gasped, as he tore open her shirt and endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from a wound low down upon the sunken chest.
"She's all right," assured the man, "Claw has gone, and she is trying to quiet the Indians."
The old crone shook her head: "No use," she whispered the words with difficulty, "Take her away—while—there—is—time. They—are—crazy—for—hooch—and—they—will—sell—her—to—him." She sank back gasping, and Brent held a cup of water to her lips as he motioned her to be quiet.
"I am going to take her," he answered, "But, tell me—who is Snowdrift?"
The beady eyes fixed his with a long, searching stare. She was about to speak when the door opened and Snowdrift herself burst into the room and sank down beside the bunk.
With a laboring effort the old woman laid a clawlike hand upon the girl's arm: "Forgive me," she whispered, and summoning all her fast ebbing strength she gasped: "It is all a lie. You are not my child. You are white. I loved you, and I was afraid you would go to your people." A paroxysm of coughing seized her, and a gush of red blood welled from her lips. "Look—in—the—moss—bag," she croaked, the words gurgling through her
blood-flooded throat. She fell heavily back upon the blanket and the red torrent gushed afresh from between the stilled lips.