“Does Dan know?—did you tell him?”
“No, Dan never ask—never talk to me, only say, ‘Take care ’Tana,’ that all.”
The girl asked no more, but lay there on her couch, filled with dry moss and covered with skins of the mountain wolf. Her eyes closed as though she were asleep; but the squaw knew better, and after a little, she said doubtfully:
“Maybe Akkomi know.”
“Akkomi!” and the eyes opened wide and slant. “That is so. I should have remembered. But oh, all the thoughts in my brain have been so muddled. You have heard something, then? Tell me.”
“Not much—only little,” answered the squaw. “That night—late that night, a white stranger reached Akkomi’s tent, to sleep. No one else of the tribe got to see him, so the word is. Kawaka heard on the river, and it was that night.”
“And then? Where did the stranger go?”
The squaw shook her head.
“Me not know. Kawaka not hear. But I thought of the track. Now many white men make tracks, and one no matter.”
“Akkomi,” and the thoughts of the girl went back to the very first she could remember of her recovery; and always, each day, the face of Akkomi had been near her. He had not talked, but would look at her a little while with his sharp, bead-like eyes, and then betake himself to the sunshine outside her door, where he would 232 smoke placidly for hours and watch the restless Anglo-Saxon in his struggle to make the earth yield up its riches.