“Do you think I had better go ahead, Naki?” Bab queried. “Some one ought to tell the grandmother that Eunice is hurt. Since I am responsible for the accident, it is my place to break the news to her. I will run on ahead.”
“Not alone, Bab!” protested loyal Ruth. “You are no more responsible for Eunice’s injury than the rest of us. It just happened to be your shot that wounded her. It might just as easily have been mine. How could we have dreamed the child was hiding in the underbrush? I shall go ahead with you.”
“Better keep with me,” enjoined Naki. “You could not find your way to the wigwam. We have followed the ‘Lost Man’s Trail.’ When we get up to the tent, keep a little in the background. The Indian woman is very old. She cannot forgive easily. It is best that I explain to her as well as I can. I will go first, alone, with the child.”
Eunice stirred a little on Naki’s shoulder. “The little one,” she declared feebly. “She of the pale face and the hair like the sun. I wish her to go with me to the tent of my grandmother.” And Eunice pointed with her uninjured arm toward Mollie.
Under a canopy formed of the interlaced branches of great hemlock trees stood an Indian wigwam. It looked as much a part of the landscape as the trees themselves. The rains and the sun had bleached it to an ashen gray. Outside the tent hung a bunch of arrows. Against the side leaned a long bow. A fire near by had been hastily covered over. But nowhere about was there a sign of human life.
“Your grandmother has heard the footsteps of strangers approaching,” Naki said to Eunice. “Let her know that you are here.”
Naki set the little girl down on her feet. Mollie stood by her; but Bab, Ruth, Grace and Reginald Latham were concealed by some thick bushes a few yards away.
Eunice spoke a few words in the Indian tongue. Suddenly the flap of the wigwam opened, revealing an aged Indian woman. She looked older than anyone that the girls had ever seen before. Her brown face was a network of fine wrinkles; but her black eyes blazed with youthful fire. She was tall and straight like the pine trees in her own forest. The old woman wore an ordinary woolen dress. Over her shoulders she had thrown an Indian blanket, striped in orange, black and red. She knew that strangers were near. But her grandchild called her!
At the sight of Eunice the Indian woman gave a curious cry, which she quickly stifled. In a voice that only Mollie, who stood near, could hear she asked: “My little wood pigeon is wounded? I have long feared it.”
Mollie marveled that the old Indian squaw spoke English.