Still sleepless at dawn, the boy rode Firefly into the woods. At sunset he came in, gaunt with brooding and hunger. His foster-mother brought him food, but he would not touch it. The Indian woman stared at him with keen suspicion, and presently old Kahtoo, passing slowly, bent on him the same look, but asked no question. Erskine gave no heed to either, but his mother, watching from her wigwam, understood and grew fearful. Quickly she stepped outside and called him, and he rose and went to her bewildered; she was smiling.
“They are watching,” she said, and Erskine, too, understood, and kept his back toward the watchers.
“I have decided,” he said. “You and she must leave here and go with me.”
His mother pretended much displeasure. “She will not leave, and I will not leave her”—her lips trembled—“and I would have gone long ago but——”
“I understand,” interrupted Erskine, “but you will go now with your son.”
The poor woman had to scowl.
“No, and you must not tell them. They will never let me go, and they will use me to keep you here. You must go at once. She will never leave this tent as long as you are here, and if you stay she will die, or kill herself. Some day——” She turned abruptly and went back into her tent. Erskine wheeled and went to old Kahtoo.
“You want Early Morn?” asked the old man. “You shall have her.”
“No,” said the boy, “I am going back to the big chief.”