“June 'fraid Arrowhead kill her.”
“But Arrowhead will never know it.” Mabel's blood mounted to her temples as she said this; for she felt that she was urging a wife to be treacherous to her husband. “That is, Mabel will not tell him.”
“He bury tomahawk in June's head.”
“That must never be, dear June; I would rather you should say no more than run this risk.”
“Blockhouse good place to sleep, good place to stay.”
“Do you mean that I may save my life by keeping in the blockhouse, June? Surely, surely, Arrowhead will not hurt you for telling me that. He cannot wish me any great harm, for I never injured him.”
“Arrowhead wish no harm to handsome pale-face,” returned June, averting her face; and, though she always spoke in the soft, gentle voice of an Indian girl, now permitting its notes to fall so low as to cause them to sound melancholy and timid. “Arrowhead love pale-face girl.”
Mabel blushed, she knew not why, and for a moment her questions were repressed by a feeling of inherent delicacy. But it was necessary to know more, for her apprehensions had been keenly awakened, and she resumed her inquiries.
“Arrowhead can have no reason to love or to hate me,” she said. “Is he near you?”
“Husband always near wife, here,” said June, laying her hand on her heart.