The old Indian smoked in silence for a full minute. He was a sharp-eyed, shrewd-faced old fellow. When he spoke, it was in the Chinook jargon, and with a significant nod toward the girl, as though she was not to hear or understand his words.
“It is true, the son of my daughter is again alive. The breath was gone when the young squaw reached him, but she was in time. Dan know the young squaw, maybe?”
The old fellow shook his head, as if not inclined to give the information required.
“She tell white men if she want white men to know,” he observed. “The heart of Akkomi is heavy for her—heavy. A lone trail is a hard one for a squaw in the Kootenai land—a white squaw who is young. She rests here, and may eat of our meat all her days if she will.”
Overton glanced again at the girl, who was evidently, from the words of the chief, following some lone trail through the wilderness,—a trail starting whence, and leading whither? All that he could read was that no happiness kept her company.
“But the life of a red squaw in the white men’s camps is a bad life,” resumed the old man, after a season of deliberation; “and the life of the white squaw in the red man’s village is bad as well.”
Overton nodded gravely, but said nothing. By the manner of Akkomi, he perceived that some important thought was stirring in the old man’s mind, and that it would develop into speech all the sooner if not hurried.
“Of all the men of the white camps it is you Akkomi is gladdest to talk to this day,” continued the chief, after another season of silence; “for you, Dan, talk with a tongue that is straight, and you go many times where the great towns are built.”
“The words of Akkomi are true words,” assented Overton, “and my ears listen to hear what he will say.”