Jim had not recalled that incident to Diana last night. He had told her he owed his life to the Indian girl—how and why he had not explained. Eagerly she leaned towards Bill as she cautiously said, "Why did she kill him?"
"Well, if"—and Bill dwelled on the word—"if she killed him, she did it to save Jim's life, and it stands to reason Jim ain't goin' to see her suffer for it." Then as he saw a troubled look on Diana's face he regretted the admission of his worries. "Say, miss, I'm awful glad that you an' Hal are goin' to pull your freight, for there's goin' to be merry hell around here."
He quickly begged her pardon for his involuntary slip, but Diana had hardly noticed it. This would mean new worry for Jim. Then she comforted herself with the thought that perhaps this kind-hearted soul was exaggerating things. Surely, if there were cause for anxiety, Jim would have spoken to her about it.
"Is there nothing that can be done, Bill?"
He shook his head.
"Well, is there anything that I can do?"
"Don't see how, except to git away as soon's you can." And then he told her of Bud's proposition to obtain money from Jim, and that the Sheriff was willing to sell his evidence against the Indian girl. "Why," he added, "I 'most kicked him off the place; and Bud will fight, you know."
But Diana was only concerned to know whether the Sheriff was safely out of the way. "You say the Sheriff's gone?"
"Thank Heaven!" Bill answered. "And, by-the-bye, just to be more cantankerous, he threatened to hold up you and your party as witnesses; but that wouldn't be legal, would it?" As he remembered the boys he added, chuckling, "It certainly wouldn't be popular."
Before Diana could reply, Jim interrupted them. Like a restless spirit he had been wandering over the place, from barn to cabin, from Hal's sleeping-room to the boys' quarters; accomplishing little and vainly trying to accept the events that had crowded into his life during the last hours. The Sheriff, he felt sure, could easily be managed, but Nat-u-ritch's disappearance was causing him anxiety. He knew it was a trait in the Indian character to hide away and stoically endure its grief in silence. Every moment he expected her to return. Stronger than all these thoughts was the desire that Diana should go at once, and little Hal with her. This speedy termination would make it easier for them all, he told himself, and then there were matters enough to claim his attention. So he reasoned as he came from the back of the house, where he had been brooding over a valise containing the child's belongings. As he saw Diana sitting there deep in conversation with Bill, he stood amazed at the simple adaptability that made it possible for her to adjust herself to these primitive belongings and people. Bill was already regarding her as a friend. Then he remembered that he must see Tabywana to tell him of Nat-u-ritch's disappearance, and arrange a plan with him to help her to evade Bud for several days.