"Where?"
He waved a dirty hand up the creek.
"Go on ahead; show us where they are."
His hesitation was too slight to be a protest, but still there was a hesitation, and the two glanced at each other as they noticed it.
"I don't believe there is either squaw or papoose," decided Stuart. "Lo is a romancer."
But there was, huddled over a bit of fire, and holding in her arms a little bundle of bronze flesh and blood. It was, as the Indian had said, sick—paroxysms of shivers assailing it from time to time.
"Give me your whisky-flask!" Rachel said promptly; and dismounting, she poured some in the tin cup at her saddle and set it on the fire—the blue, sputtering flame sending the odor of civilization into the crisp air. Cooling it to suit baby's lips, she knelt beside the squaw, who had sat stolidly, taking no notice of the new-comers; but as the girl's hand was reached to help the child she raised her head, and then Rachel knew who she was.
