As she watched the squaw preparing supper, she asked her about Death Face, the young chief.
“He heap good young chief—heap like paleface. He be great chief some day, and maybe have peace with palefaces, for he don’t like to kill Little Paleface’s people, but big fighter in battle. Red people all love Death Face. Iron Eyes heap cruel man, kill and scalp paleface, hate them bad. Iron Eyes kill many.”
Lucille glanced out of the open window and said half aloud:
“Speak of the devil, and his imp appears. There comes Death Face now.”
He rode up to the front of the cabin and was alone.
Lucille walked out on the piazza and to her surprise he bowed courteously to her and then said:
“I hope you are comfortable here!”
“Comfortable, yes, far more so than I anticipated being, but unhappy, as you may know, for my people are not your people, my life not your life, we are raised in a different atmosphere and are foes.”
The chieftain listened to her in deepest attention, gazing fixedly at her, and then said:
“I like to hear you talk, for it brings back to me the voice of those I loved, those who are gone.”