He turns from them. He rushes forward to the old Indian, who falls back frightened at the glare of his fiery eye.
“These are not all!” cries he, in a voice of thunder; “there are others. Bring them forth, old man, or I will hurl you to the earth!”
“There are no other white squaws,” replied the Indian, with a sullen and determined air.
“A lie! a lie! your life shall answer. Here! confront him, Rube!”
“’Ee dratted old skunk! That white har o’ yourn ain’t a-gwine to stay thur much longer ev you don’t bring her out. Whur is she? the young queen?”
“Al sur,” and the Indian points to the south.
“Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” cries Seguin, in his native tongue, and with an accentuation that expresses his complete wretchedness.
“Don’t believe him, cap! I’ve seed a heap o’ Injun in my time; an’ a lyiner old varmint than this’n I never seed yet. Ye heerd him jest now ’bout the other gals?”
“Yes, true; he lied directly; but she—she might have gone—”
“Not a bit o’ it. Lyin’s his trade. He’s thur great medicine, an’ humbugs the hul kit o’ them. The gal is what they call Mystery Queen. She knows a heap, an’ helps ole whitey hyur in his tricks an’ sacrifiches. He don’t want to lose her. She’s hyur somewhur, I’ll be boun’; but she ur cached: that’s sartin.”