“Who is that girl?” The old woman looked displeased.
“Daughter of the white woman.”
“Does she know?”
“Neither knows.”
“What is her name?”
“Early Morn.”
Early Morn and daughter of the white woman—he would like to know more of those two, and he half turned, but the old Indian woman caught him by the arm:
“Do not go there—you will only make more trouble.”
He followed the flash of her eyes to the edge of the firelight where a young Indian stood watching and scowling:
“Who is that?”