“I do not know whether I am wise or not,” she answered firmly. “But I keep the faith of the trail, and I shall not leave you in the lurch. Neither will Babette, I am sure.”
As he regarded her, a strange look came into his eyes, a look of mingled pride and pain.
“Joy,” he said brokenly, “you are a great woman and I was never worthy of you!... You can take your chances with me if you like. When I come to think upon it they are perhaps as good as those that wandering in the wilderness, short of stores, offers. They may spare you; who knows? And it is coming spring. You can feel it in the air. A few days and the river will begin to break up, and then will come white men, prospectors and what not. You may have a chance.”
“It is by that chance I shall abide,” Joy replied, “and not by any that leaves you to the mercy of savages.”
The Indians finished their confabulation and the leader stepped forward again, and with lowering looks addressed himself to Dick Bracknell, who nodded and then handed over his pistol and hunting knife, and with his back to Joy addressed her in warning.
“Keep your pistol out of sight, Joy. These brutes will not suspect you are carrying one, and we may yet find it very useful. They demand that we accompany them to their encampment up the river. I have agreed, since there is nothing else that I can do. I do not think they will hurt you or Miss La Farge—yet.”
A few minutes later they started and presently arrived at an encampment consisting of perhaps a score of tepees. Dogs greeted their coming noisily, children and women came out of the skin tents to look at them, and a few men joined their captors as they moved towards the centre of the camp. Just as they halted, a tall Indian came out of one of the tents, and by his side tottered a man who seemed incredibly old, but though his step was feeble, his eyes were keen, and as they fell on Dick Bracknell they lighted with sudden ferocity, and as she caught the glare he directed towards them, Joy felt the clutch of fear at her heart.
“Who is that old man?” she asked. “He knows you. I saw the recognition leap in his eyes.”
“He is the Shaman—the tribal witch-doctor, you know. I am afraid his recognition of me is not a propitious one. He is a ferocious old beast, and he owes me one.”
“What have you done to the tribe,” asked Joy curiously, “that all of them should be against you?”